


Wisdom Teeth

by The_Divine_Fool



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Cats, Death, Halloween, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Violence, Psychological, Smoking, now with sex!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 131,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8339332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Divine_Fool/pseuds/The_Divine_Fool
Summary: It all started when Cartman found that stupid, ugly cat on a rainy night in October.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Scrounged this up from an old account, and decided to breathe some new life into it (whatever's left, anyway).  
> Also, it's October, and I've failed to dredge up any Halloween spirit this year, which is so unusual for me. I'm hoping this odd conglomeration of South Park and Zilpha Keatley Snyder's young adult novel Witches of Worm will help get me in the mood. Very little reference to the book, honestly; it really just explains a few similarities.

### Strength, Reversed

Kenny took deep breaths over the steering wheel of his dad's Chevy pick-up. Eight snow-white knuckles quivered like mountain peaks beneath his hot exhales, and for a moment he imagined quelling South Park's perpetual chill with a tropic storm from his own lungs -- melting down the whole county until it was nothing but bare bones dirt and thistle -- and the thought was empowering for all of ten seconds before the fog cleared; Kenny could have ten thousand panic attacks in his dad's Chevy but the windshield defroster would erase them all in moments. Even the imprint of the steering wheel on his reddened palms would be gone before he set foot on school property. 

The driver's side door cracked like an airlock and Kenny slid to the frosty ground in a series of shuffles and sighs. He stacked his skeleton over his boot heels and squatted -- a speck of orange in a tundra of snow white, cement grays and asphalt black -- pulling the hood of his parka up over his ears and cinching the strings tight; something about the brush of the fur on his cheeks and the warm glow inside the makeshift embryo comforted him, reminded him of safer, smaller places from his safer, smaller days. But _fuck_ if now it didn't remind him also of the horrors awaiting him outside that boundary, of Park County High, part-time jobs, the gubernatorial election. Kenny reached back into the truck to fumble for his gloves before slamming the door and settling back on his heels. 

A cigarette invaded his vision, so close to his eyes that its little golden Marlboro logo glimmered at him from the filter.

He stumbled over the words to refuse, figuring it might be that goth girl Henrietta again; in which case, Kenny really needed to find a more effective method of rejection than polite refusal to share a silent smoking moment with her in the school parking lot. 

Kenny shaded his eyes and looked up to the sky. The captain of the Park County High ice hockey team was, as usual, an indiscernible figure, despite his massive preceding reputation. 

"Still driving your dad's old truck, huh? I remember some sweet hot boxes in this thing." 

Not Henrietta. Cartman. Cartman, leaning against the hood of his secondhand Volvo. Cartman, angling his easy bored glare down at Kenny as if it hadn't been almost a whole summer since they'd last talked. 

Kenny stood and, after a moment of almost comical hesitation, let his hood down before accepting Cartman's lighter. They weren't smokers, not really; but they all smoked, kind of. Kenny did it for something to do, mostly -- and Cartman always said he did it for the head rush, and as soon as it wore off he'd stop. It shouldn't look good, that mass-produced amber filter dangling from his old friend's chapped lips, and maybe _good_ was the wrong word but -- it worked. It just worked on him. 

"You were buggin' out, man."

"It's Monday," Kenny said. He was looking for an excuse, feeling like now was his chance to draw Cartman back in, to claw his way over whatever awkwardness spread between them which had warranted a whole summer of isolation, but he knew he was powerless against his old friend's convictions, whatever they may be; he was smoking a fucking cigarette at 8 o'clock in the morning, there were tremors in his hands, and he was powerless.

"Yeah? So what."

"I dunno, dude, I didn't do nothin' over the weekend -- I'm gonna get my ass handed to me --"

"This ain't about fucking homework, Kenny."

"Then why don't _you_ tell _me_ , dude?" He glared up at Cartman's shaded face, at the half-dead, half-lidded glare in his brown eyes and the sneering curl of his stupid chapped lips. "'Cause it seems really fuckin' weird _you'd_ have a clue after six months of the cold shoulder."

Cartman only shrugged, indiscernible, then blew an audible gust of air from his nostrils. When he finally spoke it was quiet, muttered around his cigarette: "Get over yourself, it hasn't been six months."

And it's been a long time, Kenny knew. It's been such a damningly long time, in his mind, that every pull and stitch of his sad sock soul yearned to stay in Cartman's presence, wanted to ride around with him like the old days, hot box the Chevy and hike to the rope swing, hit the Taco Bell and play video games deep into the night like there's no time except their own, and no bells and bullshit to tell them where to be and how to live. He missed Cartman, Kenny realized, because at first he thought he just didn't like being ignored. But he missed seeing the world through Cartman's red eyes; he missed the constant everyday caustic commentary and his ruthless commitment to retribution; he missed the light smattering of freckles around his nose and the way his very presence made Kenny feel relevant. 

If he hadn't missed him so much, Kenny might've stayed. But he was hurt, and sticking around Eric Cartman while emotionally vulnerable was just too fucking dangerous. 

He flicked his butt on the pavement and left his old friend standing in the parking lot. 

Kenny spat some of his cigarette breath into the bushes and his feet led the way through the cars. A well-worn but narrow dirt path picked its way through a sad roadside wood to creep up on Park County High from behind. Ropes of sunlight and shadow slid over Kenny's shoulders and knees, and despite the chill he felt the stirring of optimistic warmth. They'd spoken words, today. Shit words, maybe -- but after so long without contact Kenny would probably be satisfied with a punch in the nuts. But the very last thing he'd expected was Cartman making the first move. In fact, it was laughably out of the question until five minutes ago.

A barbed wire fence marked the barrier to school property. Kenny's bag snagged on the broken links as he slipped through the gap, eyes catching on the steel post where a scribble in black paint leered its greeting: _Welcome to Mordor_. All at once he dropped to a crouch again, head between his knees. _Idiot._ It came upon him like a migraine, like he'd already noticed it swimming behind his eyes before it burst into life in his frontal lobe. _If Cartman is thawing a deep freeze of his own free will, something is very fucking wrong._

So maybe the four of them hadn't been super tight since middle school. And by that he mostly meant Cartman broke off from the iceberg and Kenny had turned to a puddle at its feet (or so he imagined). The larger school system was an open market for someone like Cartman; no one knew his reputation at first, no one knew not to make bets with him like the South Park kids did, and many fell victim to his rings of lies and blackmail. But it wasn't till he got expelled in eighth grade that Cartman got strange. His mom got new work, squeezed Eric back into the school system, and -- Kenny told anyone who'd listen -- he got strange, almost quiet, but equally as malicious. Some people said he was so much better, but Kenny had thought it was so _so_ much worse. Without the childish -- often explosive -- commitment to his agenda, Cartman became less like a caricature of evil and more like the real deal. And then he got broad, got capable, and suddenly he was a member of the ice hockey team, and Kenny maybe realized he was actually a terrible friend and hadn't really been there for Eric -- and fuck, did they even hang out anymore? 

By the time he'd torn through the fence and pounded back along the dirt path to the parking lot, the black Volvo sedan was already gone. Kenny stood by his truck, stared at the two fizzling cigarette butts crushed on the pavement. _Have I missed something important?_ He thought. He never quite knew, with Cartman.

Nine gun shots and the opening riff to a 50 Cent track jerked Kenny from his thoughts. He pulled out his phone and swiped his thumb across a picture of possibly his two favorite idiots, holding the speaker to his ear. 

"Hey."

"Kenny!" Came the more or less panicked voice of Stan Marsh. "You, uh... Dude, you're missing first period."

Whatever. "Stan, what the hell is going on? I just ran into Cartman --"

"You saw him? Is he still with you? Can you tell him Craig wasn't trying to --"

Kenny cut him off, frustration snapping at the back of his throat. " _Tucker_ did something? Stan, you tell that son of a bitch I will make him _infertile_ \--"

"What, no! Nothing! It was just... Oh, hey, did you hear about Kitty?"

"...Kitty?"

There was a brief pause on the other end. "She died, dude." Stan said. "Last night. Cartman posted some cryptic bullshit on Instagram, but we knew. Then in first period Craig tried to ask him -- I didn't hear exactly -- and Cartman just told him to step off and threw him over a fucking desk."

Kenny wished he'd witnessed that. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"Wait -- !" Stan started, then continued with slow deliberation. "Wait, man, are you going to find him? Do you even know where he went?"

"It doesn't matter. I mean... No. But it really doesn't matter." Stan wouldn't understand.

Kenny heard the sound of a scuffle on the other end of the line, then Stan's voice was replaced with another. "I hope you know what you're doing, dude." 

"I --" _I have no idea what I'm doing, Kyle._

Stan cut back in. "Don't... you know, don't fucking bully him, alright?"

 _...what?_ Stan's lost his _mind_. " _Dude --_ "

"I know, I know, I'm just..." Kenny heard the sound of Stan's breath hitting the phone's receiver and then his voice grew thinner as it turned away. "We just want fat-ass to be alright again, right?"

Kyle's answer was gray and dry as tombstone. "Right, Stan. I am completely invested in Eric Cartman's emotional stability." 

"Go fuck yourself, Kyle." Kenny snapped.

"Hey! Relax --" Stan's interjection failed to drown out his best friend's grouching response: _Why do you even_ care _, Kenny? ___

"Don't tell me to relax, Stan. Do I have to stand here and listen to Kyle's bullshit, or can I fucking go now?" Kenny said, cramming his phone between his ear and shoulder as he finally climbed back into his truck. The truth was he didn't have an answer to Kyle's sentiment -- _why do you even care_ \-- because he'd been asking himself the same thing since he left Cartman in the parking lot. He shouldn't care that fat-ass lost his stupid cat. He shouldn't care that he left their group; things were much quieter without Eric around, and in South Park quiet was somewhat hard to come by. 

But at the same time, Kenny couldn't bear the thought that someone _else_ might find Cartman first, like any one of those ice hockey spooks or new "friends" who stuck to Eric the way dust clings to static energy. Kenny feared these nobodies might change him, somehow -- they might damage his delicate self-serving spirit. Anyway, they didn't have the _right_ to be friends with Cartman. He was _Kenny's_ best friend. That was how it should be, how it always was -- even if the fat fuck _had_ ruined his favorite superhero game when they were eight.

"One more thing, Kenny. You still got those headaches?"

He thrust the gearshift into reverse. "About a four on the hurricane scale."

"Kenny," Kyle's voice again. "Let us know if you need to be picked up, okay? Don't drive on a migraine."

Naturally, the first place to look for Cartman was his house. But that was fucking stupid so Kenny didn't even bother, instead pulling onto the main road to check all their old haunts: the arcades, the pond, places they went to for coffee -- diners they went to stoned and looking for breakfast. He stopped briefly outside of the Predator cafe to catch up with the owner's big mountain dog. Mr. Liu never took care of him proper, Cartman always said. Then he tried the Taco Bell, the T.G.I. Fridays -- he even circled the ice rink looking for junky black Volvos. By the time Kenny admitted he'd run out of ideas, the light was drawing in. He was two hours from home, his phone was non-stop buzzing, his engine was overheating, and, once again, he was powerless. 

This was a test, Kenny thought. Cartman was the fucking white rabbit and if Kenny didn't find him soon then the wonderland of shit that made up the entirety of their lives might as well be fiction, because when the sun rose he would be _gone_ , maybe not gone from South Park but gone from Kenny's life. And this was such a typical Cartman _test_ \-- Kenny hated it -- but at the same time the fact that Cartman had issued the challenge thrilled him; it was yanking him and all his anxieties from the grave, spitting and coughing, and as much as he resented Cartman -- for his silence, for his absence, for his _strangeness_ \-- he still kind of loved him, he thought. They were best friends. Supposed to be, anyway. 

Kenny's head hit the steering wheel. Rain pattered against the windshield. He pulled out his phone, ignored the updates from Stan and Kyle, and shot off a quick text.

 _I give in. Where are you?_

He didn't expect anything. He'd lost, hadn't he? It was only an admission of defeat. And when one lost to Cartman, mercy was the last thing on that psychopath's wild wheel of punishments; if the loser was lucky, they only got their nose rubbed in shit. Kenny already knew he'd lost before he even left the parking lot -- Stan never quite grasped it, but entering a challenge with Cartman expecting to win was a mistake. Even when they were young he never understood why Stan and Kyle debated endlessly over Cartman's motives; because it was simple: make your opponent lose all hope. 

Kenny was parked at a deserted rest stop along the highway leading out of town, only the occasional streak of passing headlights to remind him that time was passing. He began to believe the rain had always just been there -- South Park was the snowglobe and his only chance to break the glass was to find the rabbit or give up the fucking ghost. He stopped breathing. It would be a simple thing, to die here, far from the home. Each passing set of headlights was an opportunity for collision -- even the _rain_ could bring him to a slow, hypothermic end --

Kenny's stomach rumbled. His biological shell pulled him back into the present, away from the dangerous wrinkle he had slipped into -- his body never let him forget that time was indeed moving forward. Kenny wanted to grab something from the vending machine, but if he opened the car door he would probably just fall out. He suddenly wasn't just hopeless; Kenny felt _desolate_. He'd felt that way for months, just hadn't sat quiet for long enough to realize it. When he did, he could feel the wind sweeping over the backs of his eyeballs, the rain diluting his blood, and always the damned migraine waiting in his hindbrain, sitting on his spine, irradiating his skeleton like a supernova warming a wasteland. If Cartman wanted to be found, it was up to him now. Kenny just couldn't hack it. He was just starting to reconsider a willful -- and ultimately ineffectual -- suicide on the side of the road when the light on his phone changed. 

_you ever think the best day of your life has already passed_

Kenny's heart stuttered and simmered in his throat. Or maybe it was a little acid reflux from his empty stomach, he wasn't really sure. His first thought was that he was screwed; one shit sentence from Cartman was emphatically _not_ enough to locate him in the wide world of South Park, Colorado. Fuck, he might not even _be_ in Park County. Why would Cartman give him a hint just to watch him fail again? Why _not?_ His second thought was about the best day of his life.

The engine rustled to life under Kenny's careful coaxing. The wipers screeched over the windshield as the rain picked up, and he set course for the outer boundary of South Park, where mountains bubbled over the border from Jefferson County and folded the land into rivers and gorges. It wasn't much to go on, really, but two summers ago, just before the exposure of a drug trafficking ring that resulted in Cartman's expulsion and a massive overhaul of the Park County Middle School faculty, he and the guys made a plan to spend a day without extras -- no Butters, no Wendy or Bebe or Red, no Craig or Clyde or Token or any of the forgettable North Park characters who cluttered their new daily orbits -- but whenever the day came Stan always had family shit and then Kyle went off to Israel with some fucking _MIT_ program. Finally one cloudy day in early August the two of them met up at 5 in the morning and hopped an early bus out of town.

The horizon started to rise up around him in dark peaks. The evening had grown prematurely dark with clouds, so when the road turned to dirt Kenny flicked on his brights. The Chevy's high beams hit the looming tree line, plunging everything beyond into impenetrable shadow until, finally, they lit upon a dip in the trees that marked the entrance to a small dirt lot just outside the national forest hiking area.

Inside the lot sat a '93 Volvo sedan. 

It hadn't been anything, Kenny thought, just a random thing to say to fill the space. 

He trailed his fingers along the lines of the familiar car. Cartman inherited it second-hand and never stopped hating it, but Kenny eventually grew to see the vehicle as a part of his friend. A ski rack tied with bungee chord sat starving on the roof, plastered with stickers earned from mountains dominated and local beers drank; the rear bumper was heavily duct-taped; there was still a dent in the driver side door from that stupid fucking deer. Cool rain beaded on the shoulders of his parka, but didn't sink in.

They had both been exhausted when he said it, legs dangling over the edge of the gorge. It had been their last climb of the day, and their first time going to that particular spot. Kenny remembered making a joke about fat people doing athletic things; Cartman punched him.

A steep path wound around the base of the mountain leading to a gorge lining a large man-made basin. The basin collected rain and meltwater run-off from the mountains, so in the warmer months it was a popular swimming spot for the county kids: secluded from the public and only a 45-minute hike from the mountain's base. But the path Kenny began trudging along through the rain led around the basin and up along the face of the gorge. The path's lower reaches were safe for jumping down into the basin below; but few dared to use the rope swing at the highest jumping point. In the rain-flecked dark, the outline of the hanging rope made for a grim omen. Kenny stopped to consider the dark gently swaying shape for a moment, then continued onward. Tonight he had other things on his mind. 

After fading into the wilderness at a few turns, the path finally petered out high along the gorge. They had found a broad cliff face with a view of the basin below and the mountains beyond, and it was there he'd sat with his best friend, argued, and shared their first joint. And Kenny might've even mentioned it was the best day of his life. 

By the time he reached the right place, shadows were cutting mean faces in the rock and the high winds forced the rain into a punishing slant. Kenny called out as the evening drew him in, hoping to find his white rabbit and finally go the fuck home.

He found no one at the cliffside where they'd once sat, but after turning a few circles noticed the flash of a lighter in the dark yawning mouth of one of the wall faces. As he approached, Kenny tried hard not to imagine all the spooky shit that could be moving around in the caves, because he swore sometimes his imagination made things _real_ , but luckily not many things in the rip-and-tear category could be responsible for a flickering light. The rape-and-kill category was still open, however. 

"Eric."

The figure turned from where it crouched at the mouth of the cave, but Kenny already knew it was him, if only by the way the shadows kept pulling him forward. Kenny advanced until the darkness couldn't hide his recluse friend's expression, until he could see the wet hair curling over his forehead. At some point while the silence dragged on Kenny's relief gave way to confused blustering. 

"What you doing out here, man?" He said. He wrung his hands and dropped to a squat beside his silent friend. "Feels like I've been driving all damn day."

The lighter flicked again. At first Kenny only stared at Cartman's profile, fascinated by the way his eyes turned from brown to blood in the warm light while everything else stayed silver and cold. Then a scuffling sound from the shadows pulled his attention away, and he followed Cartman's gaze.

A gray, limbless blob of wrinkled skin squirmed in the dirt.

" _What the hell is that -- !_ " 

Kenny reeled back, landing on his ass and groping for Cartman to _leave_ , to come _away_ from that repulsive, squirming thing, but of course Cartman would not be pulled. Instead, Kenny's ass had hardly hit the dirt before he was wheeled back into the light by a hand fisted in the back of his jacket. His hood fell down around his ears and Kenny once again felt powerless. His eyes landed again unwillingly on the squirming gray thing and he thought that it looked almost pink under the light, that its folds might actually be hiding tiny limb-like protrusions. Then the light flickered out, draping them once more in silver and cold.

Thunder rumbled overhead, confirming Kenny's suspicion that this was all just a sick nightmare from his paranoid mind. He slowly drew away from Cartman's grip and remembered the rain, still pattering against his back. He shifted closer to the rock as the cold began to seep in. "What are you doing here? The fuck _is_ that?" 

"Kitty's dead."

Kenny chewed his lip, tried to focus on his friend but it was difficult knowing that somewhere in the dark was that scrabbling, squirming thing. It was distracting. Should he help it? Let it die? "I heard, but dude, you can't just throw people over desks."

Kenny tried to pluck some of the old fire from his friend. "You picked some excellent weather for a chase across Park County." 

Cartman's cold blood eyes watched the bait pass him by. "You remember the first time we found this place?"

The darkness enveloped them with a noticeable density. It pooled in the deep set of Cartman's eyes and slipped under the collar of his jacket, left him looking like the same kind of hollowness Kenny felt; the shadows pressed in on his temples until the stones groaned and trembled, and this time the migraine was tipped with fear and the bitter frost of panic. Somewhere that thing still whimpered in the shadows; he didn't know how to help it -- knew even less if it was his problem or not. 

"I remember." Kenny wrung his hands, dragged a thumb over his quivering knuckles. "I said it was the best day of my life." 

The lighter flicked again but this time he refused to look away from the guy he'd been looking for all day. He'd been looking for months, really. "I wanna help you, man, but I don't know how." He followed up quickly: "Don't you wanna get out of here?"

Cartman eyed him from the darkness, indiscernible. Then he jerked his chin in the direction of the wriggling thing. "I found this in here. Looks like a worm, doesn't it."

Kenny tried not to roll his eyes. "Right, so we should _leave_ before whatever left it here comes back."

"I don't think so. I think it's a runt. It'll probably die in here."

Kenny wanted to urge him to let it. Better yet, shake him until he forgot about this whole thing, until he became the selfish douchebag everyone knew him to be, not the kind of cryptic bastard who disappeared across the county when his effing cat died. The thought of the gray thing still there moving in the dark made his skin prickle with unease. He picked up some hesitance in Cartman's actions; why was he squatting on the threshold of this cave, trying to decide the fate of this repulsive creature, when he should be off indulging his own self-pity? Kenny would expect the latter from him, typically, but today he hesitated. It was fascinating, it was oxymoronic; was Eric Cartman actually experiencing _empathy_ , or was something more convoluted on his mind? Kenny knew Cartman was remarkably adept at reading other people's emotions, but not so great experiencing them for himself. Kenny saw the creature on the ground for precisely what it was: an ugly cat baby, too young to call a kitten, wiggling blindly in the dark. What did Cartman see? What made him linger here? The circumstances also seemed unfeasible; surely a cat hadn't climbed the sheer face of the gorge to give birth here? And if the mother was already gone, shouldn't this thing be dead by now?

Kenny shook his head. The migraine clattered around and then stuck fast to his right temple. This was just bad news. "Dude, let's go."

But when he moved to hasten him, to pull at his shoulder, Cartman pushed him away with unconscious brutality. Kenny responded in kind, throwing his weight into a shove that sent his friend sprawling backward -- but then it was Kenny McCormick -- good-looking but chronically underfed -- against the captain of the ice hockey team in a furious scuffle he only started out of desperation. The Park County blues and yellows of Cartman's jacket were black and gray in the dim light. Rocks displaced by their movements clattered and shifted around them, and Kenny blinked to find his heartbeat in his ears, his face in the dirt, and a fine sheen of rock dust covering his favorite parka. Heavy breathing filled the space. The gray thing had stopped moving. 

"You rescue the damn thing, _fine_ ," Kenny wheezed past the forearm pressed against the back of his windpipe. "But let's just get _out_ of here before my fucking _head_ splits open."

The weight slowly lifted from him. Kenny rose to his knees and coughed into the dirt. "I don't want this, Kenny."

 _That's just too fucking bad._ Kenny stood half in the rain and brushed the rock dust from his shoulders. "Then take it with you and we'll bring it to the shelter."

"They'll just kill it at the shelter; it's too ugly."

He resisted the urge to put his head between his knees. "Then what about your neighbor? That lady with all the cats?"

Cartman paused in adjusting his jacket, seemed to run through some mental calculations, then dropped swiftly to a crouch, rising again with an arm curled against his chest. Kenny bit back down on his disappointment -- but he couldn't put a stopper in the flood of unease spreading over his ribs at the sight of his friend holding the ugly creature against his chest. 

"I'll call you Worm," Cartman said into his armpit. "Because that's what you look like. An ugly, gray, worm."

This was a nightmare. An absolute fucking nightmare.


	2. Chapter 2

### The Magician

Kenny toed off his sodden boots and left them on the Welcome rug beside Cartman's Adidas. A few mewling cats wound around his legs as he attempted to reach the corner of the entryway Mrs. Mawal had indicated. The first thing the old woman did was insist on them both donning house slippers. Only one pair fit his feet: soft-soled pink rubber topped with matching rabbit faces smiling up at him. Kenny knelt to pull up his scratchy gray socks and paused there to drag a hand over his face. Why the fuck was he here, again? As he rose, Eric Cartman brushed past him into the living room, and for a moment he smelled weakening Old Spice deodorant and the faint musk of wet cotton. The sight of the ice hockey team captain in a pair of floral-patterned wicker slippers was absurd; it reminded Kenny he was here for his best friend, that he needed to shelter that terrific sense of absurdity from the monotony of adulthood. Before reality got the best of both of them. 

Mrs. Mawal's small home was cramped and cluttered, seemingly even more so in the dim light. Kenny picked his way carefully around stacks of books, hairballs, and glory-boxes, tripping over the shadows of passing cats. As he made his way toward the light in the living room -- a fire hazard from the 1970s pretending to be a lamp -- the mixed scents of cat piss and incense became overpowering, and Kenny fairly stumbled onto the couch beside Cartman. They were immediately joined by a large and angry-looking animal with a face hammered in on itself by countless generations of animal husbandry. Kenny's only experience with cats was his fleeting interaction with Kitty, but he watched Animal Planet with his little sister once in a while and was fairly sure you weren't supposed to stare _dogs_ directly in the eye, so he tried to ignore the creature next to him even when its claws started plucking at his leg. Mrs. Mawal still puttered in the kitchen, the sound of her discordant humming punctuated by the thump of closing cabinets and the brief murmur of a microwave. 

Kenny's knees bounced nervously beneath his fingers, still reddened with cold from the drive over from the gorge. The stereo in the Chevy was broken; it wouldn't spit out his dad's fucking John Denver mix tape and Kenny couldn't take one more second of the goddamn country fucking road so instead he made the drive in silence, squinting at the duct-taped bumper of the Volvo through the rain and wondering what the driver was thinking. Part of him hoped the wriggling gray passenger would be dead by the time they arrived in Cartman's neighborhood. And what would he have done then? The fact that the Worm survived had to mean something, something important--he just couldn't think of it.

A sudden breeze hit his ear-tips as his hood was yanked down. Kenny bit back his curses and glared, and Cartman rolled his eyes. Here, too, the modal lighting transformed the auburn-brown in his friend's eyes and hair. 

"Your eyes are red, you know? Like blood." 

One eyebrow quirked upward. "Shut up, man."

Kenny barked a laugh. "I missed you, dude." Cartman reached over and pulled Kenny under his arm so fast the much slighter male could hardly struggle before the smell of that weakening deodorant washed over him again and a cold, wet finger was stuck in his ear. 

Kenny lashed in his iron grip. "You fucking idiot -- let me _go_ \-- " A cat yowled. He felt a different kind of powerlessness; even as he cursed and struggled to put distance between his nose and Cartman's armpit, he couldn't help the startled laugh that climbed out of his throat as well. 

"Now, boys," They broke apart swiftly at the sound of Mrs. Mawal's approach. She scuffed into the living room in a swarming, mewling cloud of cats. After brief deliberation while the cloud pooled around her ankles, she chose the further of the two armchairs which, although they both appeared to have retired long ago, seemed the slightly more structured of the two, despite having twice the load of cat hair. "It sounds like you found this one under some extraordinary circumstances. Quite something that he survived."

As she spoke, Mrs. Mawal held a tiny bottle to the bundle in the crook of her arm. Kenny glimpsed the wrinkled snout of the pink-gray creature -- _Worm_ \-- emerge from the folds of the towel covered in white milk froth as it suckled vigorously. Kenny's empty stomach turned at the sight of it, distressed by the obvious signs of life from the unnatural creature. Although her words expressed the appropriate surprise, Mrs. Mawal seemed ominously unbothered by the intrusion of two wet teenagers and a mewling mutant cat baby into her living room at ass o'clock in the evening. Her whole place was ominous, Kenny noted as he glanced around at the shelves upon haphazard shelves of large and small texts and eerie knickknacks. The languages on the bindings ranged from Classical Greek and Latin to ancient pictographic forms of Egyptian, Sumerian, and Chinese. A portrait of an inscrutable young woman hung by the entryway. A fearsome mask reminiscent of traditional Korean theatre glared at Kenny from the shadows of a crooked bookcase against the far wall. 

"So you'll take it?"

"Oh, no," She tutted, almost amused. "I have my hands quite full around here, my dear. Besides," The old woman paused, bottle in hand, and looked down at the wiggling bundle. "I think this one's yours."

 _What the hell does_ that _mean?_ Kenny thought. In an attempt to avoid watching the gray thing suckle, he turned and accidentally locked eyes with the angry cat perched next to him on the couch. Amidst the mass of tangled moon-gray fur, its two massive amber eyes blinked slowly at him. Kenny blinked slowly back. 

Mrs. Mawal's chuckle was the stertor of a saltwater crocodile. "I see you've made friends with Solembum, there. Just so. As for you," she directed her voice at Cartman, who sat silently pinching the bridge of his nose. "How fortuitous that we've met this way. Thirteen years since your mother moved into that house, and not a word from either one of you."

"Mom always said you were queer," Cartman said, at the same time Kenny muttered: " _Fortuitous?_ "

Mrs. Mawal smiled a thin smile as if nothing her neighbor's son said could be unexpected. "That's just the way of it, isn't it?"

"Look, what do we do with the cat? Do you know anyone who will take it?" Kenny asked. The incense grew thicker and stronger the longer they stayed. The smoke swam just above their heads but seemed to crawl down Kenny's throat whenever he opened his mouth to speak. He felt a panic rising. The inscrutable young woman in the portrait seemed more unimpressed than before. 

The old woman considered him briefly, fine wrinkles twitching around eyes of an obscure color. 

Abruptly Mrs. Mawal stood, circled the tea table, and pushed both the milk bottle and the mewling bundle into the arms of Eric motherfucking Cartman. 

"No, lady, look, we -- he doesn't want a cat. We don't have the resources, okay? And besides, it's..." _Repulsive._ Kenny stumbled pitifully over his words. "Small, it's so small; what if we accidentally kill it?"

"You'll do just fine," The old woman began padding into the other room. "And I can get you everything you need to start out." 

Cartman stared down at the bundled towel in his lap, frozen in an expression of resigned hatred, but eventually his hand lowered the bottle to the gray thing's tiny gaping mouth.

"You're going to be weaning him, I think," Mrs. Mawal's voice carried over to them. "He's just a week or so old, so it'll be blind dependence for a little while. Shouldn't take more than a month."

Kenny imagined digging a grave in the soft carpet and bedding down in the dust and fur. He wanted to help Cartman, he really did; but mostly he just wanted his best friend back. He didn't want to watch him nurse a strange grief for his dead cat and frustration with his mother using Worm as a substitute. A jealous part of him wondered if he was actually competing for his best friend's attention with a cat -- but no, Kenny knew bad choices when they slithered in front of his path; he often made jealous pacts with bad choices; he even remembers dying from them. Cartman wasn't like him. Cartman could be an impressionable, imaginative, and destructively obsessive pain in the ass, but he was absolutely not an undead one, and when he made bad choices he suffered from them and he could _die_ from them permanently. Kenny didn't think the tiny gray creature itself was bad, necessarily, just -- well it was fuckin' _strange_ , wasn't it? -- he didn't really know. Bad news; a nightmare, he swore. 

Before the rain could even change its rhythm, Mrs. Mawal was already ushering them back to the door laden with supplies. "It's nearly feeding time now, best be on your way." The cats rushed them out of their slippers. Kenny stumbled out into the black beyond and paused on its dripping threshold until Cartman and an open box presumably containing the swaddled creature were also expunged. The door slammed on the queer old woman's last caterwaul: _Feeding time, lads -- !_

He trotted after Cartman through the wet grass. "For the cats, right?"

"She meant for the cats, right?" Hovering outside the Volvo, Kenny tested his toes against the cold leather soles of his boots and wrestled with his own unease. 

Cartman threw a blank look over his shoulder as he tucked the box into the passenger seat. He said something that got half-stuck in the patter of rain on steel and didn't quite make it to Kenny's ears.

Kenny moved forward to block his friend from closing the passenger door. Some rain began flecking the inside of the box. The thought that the gray thing had been squirming around in that cave for at least a _week_ before they found it disturbed Kenny deeply. 

He met Cartman's eyes and held a hand up to his ear. "Say that again, dude, 'cause I thought I heard you tell me to _go home_ which is hilarious because that's all I've wanted to do _all damn day_ \--"

"Then do it!"

He stuttered and stopped several times, intimidated by the sudden closeness of Cartman's fury. "I can't!"

"Why the hell _not?_ "

"Because -- Eric, for fuck's sake, you're my best friend! I'm not gonna waste time fucking around if you need me here."

Kenny wondered if his eyes were shuddering back and forth the way his vision was. As fiercely as he wanted to believe in his own words, Cartman's gaze doubted him; it made him feel inadequate and small. His friend's hair was black with moisture, curling over his forehead and dripping occasionally over his eyelashes. One droplet skirted the dark set of his eyes and followed along the bridge -- gently crooked in the middle -- to settle at the tip of his nose for a few blinks before Eric rubbed it away. It was just as easy as that, Kenny thought distantly.

He managed a single deep breath. "Not again."

The ice hockey captain abruptly turned away and became a dark silhouette between the night and the vehicle. "What d'you think this is about, Kenny?" 

Kenny's arms flapped out and back to his sides in pathetic mimicry of a shrug. "It's about... me being a shitty friend, I guess. I wasn't there when the gate crashed at P.C. Middle, and I know you were dealing with stuff --"

"We all had stuff in Middle."

"Yeah but not like you." Kenny snapped, despite himself. "And you're different, dude. You don't go to class, you don't chill with us. You've got a fucking worm from beyond the Outer Limits in your front seat, and you're _different_."

Kenny knew he wasn't exactly an eloquent guy -- didn't think anyone in South Park was, really -- but today even more than usual he cursed his incompetency. Even Kyle, Kyle who could sound poetic whenever the fuck he wanted, when it came to talking feelings he was just as socially retarded as the rest of them.

"Barbara fucking Streisand, Kenny," Cartman huffed, turning back to Kenny and looming so close that his neck began to prickle in the proximity. "You sound like you're trying to save my soul."

A hand fisted in his jacket once again and hauled Kenny bodily away from the Volvo. The passenger door slammed shut. "And did you just reference the Sixth Finger Society? You've been hanging out with Stan too much."

Kenny shifted his weight in the wet grass, nervous and frustrated, but couldn't coax a single syllable from his throat until Cartman stood on the opposite side of the car, crossing his arms on the roof over the driver's side door and staring straight at him.

"Then maybe--"

Kenny's voice puttered out and choked when Cartman cut off his retort with a quick demand: "Well?" 

"Whuh -- ?" was Kenny's intelligent response.

The ice hockey captain seemed to sigh. "Just get in the car, McCormick."

The driver's side door shut, and the engine turned over. Kenny spared a glance at his dad's Chevy pick-up, something of a forlorn and tattered figure perched on the sidewalk outside of Mrs. Mawal's house. A fog had risen up from the pavement, swirling around its tires like something alive and indestructible; maybe it was the incense. Kenny worried what might happen to his truck if he left it out here, imagining the smoke might eventually slough over the roof and swallow the old thing whole. But maybe, like the rest of the property, it would just smell a little like cat piss. 

Kenny climbed into the back seat and plunged his boots into a mess of rolling cans and last semester's textbooks. The gray interior was always tougher in the winter, he remembered. Kenny traced the spiderweb cracks in the pleather seats with his finger and tried to recall the last time he'd sat in the back seat of the little black Volvo. He promptly wished he hadn't, since he was fairly sure the last time he sat in the back was freshman year when Cartman blacked out at a block party in North Park. He'd watched Eric -- not the captain yet, just a defensive wing on the Park County High ice hockey team -- slide in and out of consciousness while the two fuckheads in the front argued about whether or not to bring him to Hell's Pass hospital. Kenny's nostrils flared at the memory; he would never forget that smell, the sour alcoholic vomit that could have stuck in his friend's throat and killed him that night, or all the other shit that might've gone wrong if the dumb shit hadn't cracked open his blood red eyes for a single lucid moment to tell Rainer to bring him back home.

 _Rainer._ Kenny's lip curled up over his teeth and his ribs drew tightly against his lungs. Rainer Fichte was driving that night, he remembered. Rainer was included in P.C. High's underground circle of top dogs, so it had always been something of a mystery to Kenny why the crooked bastard took Eric Cartman under his wing their first year. Rainer had been a junior at the time; he was a grim, dark-haired individual with lethal connections and an army of loyal spooks. In a word, dangerous. North Park parties were always bad choices, but the surprise addition of Rainer fucking Fichte had made this one in particular a fucking nightmare.

Kenny leaned over to prop his head between his knees. Remembering that night meant remembering that smell, and the more he imagined it the more real it became. That fucking _smell_. He ignored the half-breaths ratcheting in his throat and busied himself counting the cans around his feet. One, two, three Monster Imports. Nos. One half-empty bottle of orange Gatorade. Cartman had never liked the orange kind.

Kenny was so far away in his memory and so concentrated on his counting game that he didn't notice when the cans stopped shaking, when the car door opened, and he hardly noticed when a cold hand slid beneath his hood and settled on the back of his neck.

The murmurings of the car engine, the night, the passersby all collapsed under the beat of his heart and the tremendous bass in his temples. But eventually, the hum of Cartman's voice broke through his stupid panic. "Hey," he kept saying into the darkness. "It's alright."

The hand over the scruff of his neck grew warm and heavy. It was a strangely comforting sensation, one Kenny couldn't remember having ever experienced before. He wanted to urge the fingers to bite into him, to pull away the fabric of pulsing paranoia that wrapped his spine and push up into his skull; maybe they would find the poison knob that sat on his cerebrum and yank it out. He would never have a migraine again.

"Hey, hey..." Finally the sounds became words. "It's just us, Ken. It's just the two of us."

Kenny turned his head minutely, one eye finding his old friend through the cage of his arm. He couldn't speak but he knew something was passing between them as Cartman stared steadily back. Sometimes the best and worst part about Cartman was that when there were no words to say, he didn't say them. As Kenny uncurled from himself the hand slid away, pulling his hood down with it. Kenny felt its absence in the cold on his ears and the way his fear felt naked on his face.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Kenny said, searching.

The shadow crouching outside the rear door suddenly rose and moved to the passenger door, slamming and shuffling while Kenny reclaimed some semblance of homeostasis. When Cartman reappeared, holding the box, Kenny had managed to turn and plant his feet on the wet pavement. "No," he answered, at last. 

"But I don't think _you_ do, either."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is confusing, but when I wrote this, I wanted Cartman's perspective to be in the first perspective. So even though I'm back-editing a little bit, I'm not going to change it. Writing in the first person is tough, man. I learned a lot doing this.

### The Hanged Man

The morning after the storm, I woke up in the dark. 

Almost 17 years I've lived in Colorado's deep winters, but there are still some mornings the dark skies give me pause. Routines never changed around here; I still woke up every morning and got my ass to the right class before the first bell, most of the time -- still rolled over once too often, maybe, but now my mother isn't here to twist my ear about it. New job, and all -- flies out to Cali a lot. Stuck her hand down somebody's pocket, probably.

Countless empty, lonely mornings were lined up behind me like a shadowy parade of me not really living -- at least, that's what morning commutes felt like. That was high school, for you. New semester, same shit. And then one day, in the late fall, on some windy day under a blanket somewhere, the cold crawls out of the earth. It sets its fingers in the bare trees and your bare-ass toes and everything gets a hundred times emptier and lonelier. When my alarm went off, the windows were still dark. Downstairs the only light is the tiny red eye on coffee pot. Forgot to buy milk.

_Caffeine-tripping -- warmed up but still sick and numb on the inside like a nasty corn-dog. Rosy dawns fade to widow black._

I used to tell people the sudden darkness of winter was the planet earth shifting in the cosmic ass-crack of Big Buttocks (only Ike ever laughs at my Canadian TV references), mostly to piss off Kyle but also just because I didn't care and didn't think the information worth knowing. Then I learned the truth in Astronomy, which was a class I only took for my fucking science credit, so I didn't actually attend that often -- Astronomy meant as much to me as Astrology -- but even after passing the summer course I still don't think it means much. The uncertain certainties of physics don't comfort me any more than the dire unpredictability of Big Buttocks. 

_The earth wobbles away on a petulant 23-degree axis -- leaving the winter sun loitering low on its southern horizon. Beneath our feet the ground hurtles through the black. Whirling over our heads is a grand interplay of space and time, and we are powerless to stop it._

When I was really little I never wondered why the summer's cricketing nights and long mornings faded into short bursts of sunlight so low in the sky -- it was only another natural phenomenon, an uncontrollable inconvenience. But I began to notice the way the darkness and the cold brought out the hard edges in people; come winter the school bus never lingered, teachers were quick to snap, and the inhabitants of South Park lapsed into a half-lidded state of waiting, waiting for the cold to abate as if we were all on a long journey together which -- if we're lucky -- might end in sunshine. And this was one of the only parts of my life I couldn't fuckin' control. I could control the way I lived and learned, and to some extent the way my classmates thought and acted, but I could never control the natural forces that swept over South Park. I still missed the bus, I still lost at my own games. I still struggled to hang on to the illusion of control over my friends and my mother and my life. I still woke up in the dark. 

The morning after the storm, I woke and registered that the earth -- on its 23-degree axis -- was tilted away from its orbital center. The South Pole leaned into the center while the North Pole lurched further into the black. I knew the sun would appear late and low in the sky, sinking lower each day until the Winter Solstice.

After the usual pep-talk (in adolescence, self-encouragement becomes a long list of threats) I sat up and wrenched my stiff legs around to the floor. The paling darkness cut my knees into mechanical gray planes; they creaked and whined while I spaced out over their strange design, somewhat repulsed by the dry skin mottled with old grapevines of bruises. Took a slap-shot to the leg last practice that still hadn't stopped throbbing. Pads and shin-guards were mandatory -- but everybody got lucky sometimes, and Jim was fucking gunning for me; the Larson twins have played hockey their whole lives and their slap-shots make the whole stadium ring -- if only they would _listen_ to me and take the time to fucking aim.

I prodded around the tender puck-sized shadow on the outside of my kneecap before pausing to examine my knuckles instead, struck by their similarity to my knees: purplish-pink scar tissue raised on gray flesh. Muscles catch and release, tighten and swell, twisting bones on cartilage gears under a skin-suit of flesh and blood. _Fucking machine,_ I thought dimly, and sat up to sink my ten freezing claws into my throat. Usually cold fingers reminded me to eat -- bad circulation ran in the family, ma had it too -- so I used to eat a lot in the winter, since in Colorado, fingers are cold more often than not. 

But then I figured, if I couldn't control shit-else in my life, I could at least control my hunger -- _I_ was the operator of this machine, damn it, _I_ was the ghost in this shell, and I was going to decided when and what it fucking ate. Ignoring the cold meant I forgot to eat sometimes, though. 

It was Friday, but I'd already sent an email to Principal Coffer describing an unexpected death in the family and excusing me from classes, signed by my mother. The nice thing about new principals and dick-face teachers was a lot of my old excuses suddenly took on new life. I hadn't been able to kill _any_ family members off under Mr. Garrison, and he got wise to my voice impressions after a while, too. 

Mom doesn't know Kitty is dead. She probably won't notice the freshly turned dirt in the backyard. Maybe she won't even notice Kitty's absence. Might even be better that way; I don't think I can take any more of her jaded words of consolation. 

I picked up the toweled bundle from the box on the way out the door. It squirmed and made soft 'choo' noises all the way to the bathroom, as if it already knew the drill, as if it had more than the three-second memory of a baby. Old woman Mawal told me it needed constant care every couple hours for a few nights, bottle-feeding and digestional "stimulation", so -- without really knowing why -- that was exactly what I did. Every two hours I got my ass out of bed to feed the little fucker and rub its ass with a towel until its underdeveloped bowels moved. Once, during the night, I had a dream -- or maybe some murky memories -- that I forgot to set the alarm; I remember stumbling through the darkness, imagining the worst, only to find a huddled orange shape with big hollows for eyes already feeding the choo-ing bundle. As if some twisted shade of myself -- a small mass of hatred and resolve under fluorescent lighting -- had risen from my dreams to care for and coddle that... that -- (wretch! worm! _monster_ ) -- gray thing.

Worm stretched in the towel. I watched the tiny spine beneath translucent skin wind up vertebrate by minuscule vertebrate, peaking in a wicked curl, and then Worm's eyes turned to me. As before, I stared back. Despite their blindness, Worm's eyes _expected_ something from me. It was a relief to put it back down in the box by the radiator and leave the room. 

Kitty would always beat me down the stairs. Even when she was real old and ma got tired of the vet bills, Kitty was still scratching at my door every single effing morning to race me down the stairs. Today I only imagined the gentle swish of her tail brush past my knees. She would hound me at the fridge, waiting for her can while I pulled out the milk, then raise hell when I poured my cereal because it sounded just like her dry food. _You're such a fucking nut, Kitty._ Then finally I would shell out her disgusting chicken giblets and we'd both settle down to breakfast. Today I only poured milk over corn flakes and moved into the living room.

_Like a grandfather clock: minor maintenance fee, periodic noise pollution. A soft set of eyes, never too near. Cats were the right kind of company._

Kenny was still passed out, loose like liquid but bound tight with nerves, like Kitty. He had long since grown too long and too lank to fit comfortably on the couch -- nevertheless, he appeared to sleep soundly with his feet hung over the edge of the armrest, face hidden against the cushions, wrapped tight in his orange parka. Only a poor little shit like Kenny would wear socks with giant holes in the heels.

I pushed his legs aside and sat on the edge of the couch, wondering if he'd actually been there, last night, with Worm, or if I'd only dreamed it. He hated Worm. I had recognized his aversion instantly; I know hatred when I see it. I saw it from my mother in slights and pulls all the time, so how could I not notice it slung across my best friend's face? I also couldn't blame him. I kind of hated Worm, too. 

He hadn't been the usual cocky Princess McCormick, I noticed, when I found him in the parking lot yesterday. He was off -- desperate, almost -- the whole night. Not desperate like a damsel but _strained_ like somebody clinging to the edges of a grave, or hanging over one. Hadn't seen him in a state like that in a long while, maybe since the time his little sister run off for a few days when we were just starting out at P.C. Middle. Kenny hadn't always been nervous, but he grew into it, in a certain way. Most kids our age got nervous about grades, or looks, or social standing. But Kenny, who'd never known any kind of stability his whole lousy life, fashioned his worries from a dire fear of change. Every night he used to toss and turn like a fucking refugee (maybe he still did) trapped in dreams of death and mutilation; every day he watched from inside his goddamn hood like bits and pieces of the world were crumbling while I, in turn, watched bits and pieces of him do the same.

Most people looking at darkness admitted they couldn't see shit. But McCormick looked into the shadows and saw shapes moving behind them, accepted them, made them real. It was a _tra_ gic fucking irony, really, because Kenny wasn't some _o_ pen-minded boy-howdy country boy; he was a spitting, thieving, graffiti hound, a shit-starter and finisher -- he didn't _like_ all the monsters in his life, he just always ended up closest to them. And he would literally have a panic attack in my backseat before he admitted that things weren't _nor_ mal, and he couldn't just _slide_ back into my life like bad Mexican and pretend shit's just like it's supposed to be.

Looking at McCormick then, snoring softly on my couch, it was hard to imagine him as the anxiety-ridden hollow kid he'd become; I saw the Kenny from my childhood: aloof, devil-may-care, quiet right up until the moment he wasn't -- and the most daring son of a bitch I'd ever met.

Early morning Animal Planet was a series of soothing documentary reruns, dry and slow, mostly raw footage. So while sheets of hot rain fell on the marsh lions I stared out the black window and imagined my own world flooded, dark and dripping. Inside my house with my cereal I was nothing, not predator not prey -- only an observer on the thin feathered threshold between dream and reality -- but out there, I had to decide. And unlike the TV show, the dulcet tones of Simon King did not accompany each act of savagery in my own shadowed wasteland. 

Before long the snuffling and shifting of the weight beside me signaled Kenny's slow journey to the waking world. Eventually he pulled his legs from behind my back and sat up with a strangled noise, began stretching his large muscle groups. Whenever Kitty woke up from a long nap, she'd walk around stretching for a whole hour about it, then either go back to sleep or start licking her ass. I waited for Kenny's next move. His fucking hood finally fell. "I had a dream I was riding a pony with a hangover."

I turned back to the marsh lions. It's not like I _ac_ tually expected him to lick his own ass. "Temple of Doom run-through? You still dreaming in FPS?"

"Yeah, except less Indie and more Lara Croft."

Snorted sharply around my spoon, side-eyed my best friend as he stood up and began digging around in his bag in a sleep-befuddled daze. For a few moments, it seemed Kenny's only worry in the world was the location of his contact lens case. "Dude, you are not as hot as Lara Croft."

He found the case, dropped it, dug it out again, and starting to shuffle stiffly over to the bathroom in his holey fucking socks. "So you admit I'm hot as Harrison Ford," he called.

I listened as the door opened behind me, and half-bet on the sound of his piss drowning me out. "Dude, easily." 

Taking a mate in the lion world looked like a long bloody process; half the time they were clawing each other's ears off and the other half having what sounded like really miserable sex. Then it was all over and they forgot about each other. " _I left my contacts in all fucking night._ " Only dimly aware of his movements behind me, I was caught off guard when hands clamped over my ears and Kenny pressed a kiss to the top of my head -- the way he used to in the old days, whenever I brought coffee to our seventh period. "Thanks man, I already know you think I'm hot. So what's the coffee situation?"

He was slamming shit around in the kitchen before I could even turn around and bitch about his wet fucking hands. I'd've grabbed him, maybe, laid his punk ass out. "Sumatra. And keep fucking dreaming, McCormick, maybe after a few years of braces girls will stop pity-dating you."

A few dry corn flakes cut up my mouth as I tried to refocus on the marsh lions. Kept one ear cocked for a comeback from the kitchen, but none came. Probably a minute ticked by and I wondered if the marsh lions ever tore throats out accidentally. It's gotta be hard, after all, walking around with those weapons in your mouth and your hands. When you're built to kill, there's nothing in the world that'll change your instinct for it. Not even utter isolation. The silence from the kitchen was deafening.

I was part of the change that terrified Kenny; why else would he turn up like this and start _caring_ when it was already too late? I bet his normalcy recovery program had "fix Cartman" up at the very top of the list, and I bet he thought it would be easy, easy as suckling a repulsive gray worm at the ass-crack of dawn. He hated me, probably, but McCormick was just the kind of masochistic piece of shit who would choose familiarity over change even if it killed him. _You're different,_ he'd said to me. But he was waiting to be proven wrong; I was the same old shape shifting in the shadows, and once he confirmed this he would leave again. I only wondered what it would take this time. 

Kenny came back to settle beside me as the coffee machine sizzled, spat, and whirred. "Babe," he said, grim-faced. "Jealousy is so unbecoming. You got nothing to worry about; those girls mean nothin' to me."

I cracked a smile at the old line, then grimaced. Kenny pushed his black-frame glasses up his nose, one hand sweeping back to rub at the short blond hair behind his ear and then pull at the longer sun-bleached spikes at his crown. Kenny dipped his head when he laughed because he'd learned to hide is teeth. At least he didn't hide them behind his hand anymore, poor bastard. I thought of kicking Kenny out of my house. He was so damned familiar, and so easy to be around, but trying to build up the same friendship with him felt like trying to catch a stream with my bare hands. I still thought of him as my best friend but it was in the same way I thought of my mother; she would always be my mother, but she didn't have to mean anything to me.

It was just like Kenny to drum up a familiar joke despite how strained and non-existent our friendship had been for the past few years. He managed to fool a lot of people, but I knew Kenny McCormick was a little smart-ass. He knew how to call up insecurities. He knew how to make a guy sweat; he knew how to sail a lame joke like a paper airplane over the mental walls I'd spent the better part of puberty building up. 

"You ass," I croaked. "You haven't had a date since you were thirteen with that Raisins chick who just wanted to hold your fuckin' hand in front of her friends."

"Holy shit, I can't believe you remember that." He snorted with laughter. I was finally able to sneak a look at his jumbled row of bottom teeth and one of his jaunty upper canines. Such a catch, my best friend; the goddamned prettiest, most unlucky bastard in all of South Park. All of Park County, maybe.

When McCormick and his black-frame glasses left the living room to tend to the coffee, I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn't felt that awkward around somebody since Token shot me through the shoulder in fourth grade. Why had I gone to _him_ of all people, yesterday, in my grimmest hour? I really didn't know. One of the downsides of being as overly fucking dramatic as me is not always being able to predict where you'll go or what you'll do, at any sort of emotional peak. Didn't even think about it, just remember pulling off the highway, waiting at the light, turning into the lot. The only time Kenny isn't painfully observant is when he's got his damned head between his knees; I don't think he even noticed me park next to him until I wagged a cigarette in his face. It was the only thing I could think of to snap him out of it. The others -- Stan and Kyle, I mean -- were so stupid about that kind of stuff, always trying to _reason_ McCormick out of his fear, explain away the monsters or pull his head from his arms, but you can't shout away panic; there's nothing you can really do except wait for the high tide to sink again. The only trick is, if you get psyched out by the waves they'll never go down; they'll rise until they lap at your throat and you suffocate. At least, that's what Kenny told me once, back in Middle. I'd only had one panic attack my whole life and it wasn't something I ever wanted to repeat. It happened on a subway in a cart full of strangers and after a few unhelpful slaps on the back and the words of an old Chinese man -- _"I know you feel like you are going to die, but you will not."_ \-- I managed to pull out of it before the next stop. And I never told a soul. It was the day I got expelled from school, just after the Colorado State Police had me in a locked room for three and a half hours. 

I'd never been so alone.

Maybe I can't blame Kenny for not being there. I never thought I did, really, until he brought it up last night and I felt his few regretful words fall on a hard lump of resentment I'd kept unknowingly in my gut; but once I recognized the weight for what it was, it became impossible to ignore. I never resented McCormick before, I swear it; to be honest, I always felt a warm pulse of something like pride when we were in Middle and we'd kick it together with some random Park County mooks -- Kenny was so hard to ignore in those times; after Elementary his quiet ways grew loud and profound -- a blond-haired blue-eyed kid from south of the tracks who never backed down from a challenge, too smart and too dirty for high school, a yellow wolf who drew more wanting gazes than any girl in school -- and I admit I was proud to call him my best friend. Before things changed, anyway. 

I suddenly remembered the other reason I pulled into the P.C. High parking lot that day. His truck -- Kenny's dad's 1974 Chevy truck, impossible not to recognize the rusted rims and chipped red-turning-salmon paint. 

"That all you dreamed about?"

Kenny's silver earrings sat on the table in front of me. I picked one up and toyed with the backing.

He came shuffling back in with two mugs, watching the liquid lap at the rims with comical seriousness. I re-imagined him in those ridiculous pink rubber rabbit slippers from last night. Couldn't believe I was nervous around him, _Kenny_ fucking _McCormick_ , who I'd known for the entirety of my self-aware life. Everyone I met from this point onward would have no clue how I took my coffee, or that I used to have a cat, or what my mom used to be like, what I used to be capable of; some shit you just can't share with anyone else. 

"Is that all I dreamed about?" He reiterated, planting my _Crabby in the Morning_ mug on the table and settling back on the couch with his own clasped tightly in his hands. "I mean, yeah, yep. It was pretty unremarkable, honestly, other than the part where the pony kept singing this John Denver song -- "

"I don't care about the pony, fuckface. Was there anything else?" I pressed, feeling the precise moment the conversation fell with a lurch away from its former light-heartedness. I felt bile crawl up my throat and put the earring down in favor of the coffee. 

"Dude, I don't--" Kenny sighed and pulled at his hair. "I dreamed about the gorge."

"What about it?" I didn't mean to snap. 

My old friend looked cornered, fingers tightening around his mug while his eyes swept the room, landing briefly on the marsh lions before fixing on a low point between us. "I was driving," he said. "It was dark and raining, and I tried to turn the brights on, but everything went dark instead. I went off the road."

The front of the Chevy is folded inwards around a black tree. Parts of the windshield have fallen in and lay on the dashboard in a glittering blanket, and its driver sits hunched over the steering wheel. On closer inspection of the wreck I see specks of glass like diamonds in his hair, and when I come around to the driver's side I see blood glistening in Kenny's hairline and the somewhat resigned peacefulness on his pale face. Something is familiar about the wooded area but I can't put my finger on it.

"Anything else?"

"I don't really remember, dude," Kenny said. "Except... there was the _same fucking John Denver song_ , I shit you not, playing on the stereo." 

He chuckled a little humorlessly, but I couldn't join in. That song, that droning country melody, was one of the only other things I could remember about my dream two nights before. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from holiday! Hope I'll be able to pick at this some more. A million thanks to those who left their thoughts in the comments--it was so wonderful to come back and read them.

### Judgement, Reversed

As October stretched and began to shed its skin, South Park came alive with the calamity of fall.

If he ever left South Park, Kenny thought he might miss the somewhat post-apocalyptic image of massive bonfires on the horizon, spitting pungent flumes of burning stalk and crop waste into the overcast sky. He might even miss the heady smell of the cow shit, dropped in steaming blocks in the center of the road, arranged in towers and mazes where the thick tread of passing trucks and tractors had squished through them. Park County's flat farmland lay on both sides of the dirt road he followed, a gaping expanse of muddy browns and tans bracketed far in the distance by an upturned comb of blue mountain range. 

A kick from Stan sent a discarded aluminum can hissing across the gravel. It briefly disturbed a flock of quietly honking geese huddled by the roadside; and a large gander flapped its stunted wings, baring a startlingly white breast at the two passing boys. Kenny eyed them appreciatively -- most of the geese wore their autumnal cloaks of peat-moss brown, but some had donned beautiful buttresses of stark black and white at their tails and wingtips. 

The can came to rest in a gully alongside heaps of rural garbage: polymer-fiber sacks ripped and ravaged by roving dogs, the usual medley of cigarette butts, tissues, and fast food waste. The gully was a remnant of a concrete irrigation system left in disrepair as South Park's farming economy gradually wilted, victim of a market flooded with the cheap products of monopolistic biotechnology and an admittedly unfriendly climate. The fluid at the bottom of the concrete shelf was so thick it no longer stirred in the autumn breeze, and after a wobble of blue-green surface slime, evidence of the aluminum can's entry into its new ecosystem was quickly erased. 

"Man, this place is a dump." 

Kenny looked up. Stan turned a sideways glance back at him, hands shoved deep in his pockets and some unspoken concern sitting heavy in his gray eyes. Sharon had probably only recently taken a buzzer to her son's dark hair; only one or two locks fell over his brow from the rim of his hat -- otherwise Kenny might've been spared full blast of Stanley Marsh's disturbingly perceptive gaze. Stan never said anything -- he _almost_ never said anything -- beyond the normal flow of conversation, but Kenny always felt a firm emotional dressing down when his friend angled that half-concerned half-accusing look at him. 

Kenny kept his eyes ahead and did his best to ignore it. 

But Stan would not be ignored. "I don't know about this, Ken -- maybe we should have waited for Kyle to finish his bat Mitzvah shit--"

"He's got another Mitzvah to go to every fucking week, Stan -- we can't keep waiting for him to show up." Kenny snapped. "You know, eventually you're gonna have to start doing things without his dick up your ass. And anyway, what's the problem? You got _me_ here, right?"

"First of all," Stan sighed, responding with the pragmatic calm of a man used to defending his friendship with Kyle Broflovski and simply beyond embarrassment. "I do a lot -- _most_ things, I'm inclined to say -- without Kyle's dick up my ass, thanks. And it's not that you aren't an excellent wing-man, it's just -- I kind of get the feeling I'm winging for _you_ right now. Are you sure fat-ass even wants me there?"

"Why do you call him that." Kenny said, opting for petulance in lieu of an explanation.

"What? I--" 

Finally Stan stopped walking.

"He's not even fat anymore," Kenny felt compelled to add, unwilling to lift his eyes from the battered toes of his boots. "Have you even seen him? He's a fucking weapon of mass destruction." 

When he and Kenny were side by side, Stan continued forward at his slow, surefooted trudge. "I _know_ that, Kenny, I've _seen_ him -- I just spent two hours watching him slam North Park juicers into the boards, for Christ's sake. It's just --" 

"Habit?"

"No! It's... familiarity. I say it because I _know_ fat-ass, I guess, but lately... man, right now Eric just makes me _nervous_ , okay? Shit, I don't know."

"I get it, dude." Kenny got it. If he didn't hate Cartman so much he could never know what it was like to kind of love the bastard, too. There was no line -- not a thin one, not even a blurred one -- between loving and despising Cartman; he could only feel both these emotions at once -- the blood-boiling heart-wrenching desire to pull Eric inside and out of the storm, but also to slam the door in his face. Being close to him meant a constant struggle with self-contradiction; Cartman could probably pop Kenny's head like a grape and leave him psychologically crippled to boot -- and Kenny hated him for it -- but he loved him, too, for regularly choosing _not to do so_. Stan was starting to grasp this, he realized; he hadn't always been awed by Cartman's power the way Kenny had, and was using the childhood nickname to hold on to an old memory, a familiar set of rules. "Fat-ass" was childish, benign -- the word expressed tolerant dislike, mostly -- but it bothered Kenny now because it meant Stan was denying that Eric was different, that he was sick, and...and that maybe for the first time in his life he might need some fucking _help. ___

South Park's only country road curved gently into the distance. Stan left the gravel, hopped the gully, and began trudging through the murky cropland all with his hands still deep in his pockets. _He's ruminating,_ Kenny thought. He hesitated, then followed Stan into the brush. At the last moment a lancing shadow caught his eye and in his race to avoid it nearly lost an ankle to the gutter. His already salted, scuffed, and thoroughly secondhand boots accepted a thick smear of gully slime with the kind of bitter dignity only an old pair of shoes has.

"Would think you'd know this area by now."

An offhand, mostly meaningless acknowledgment of his hardship, Kenny knew, but he sneered at his friend's back anyway. Stan didn't know what it was like to see his demons manifest around him, pressing in on his ribs, his fingernails, his eyelids from the outside -- no, Marsh's monsters were _inside_ the membrane -- and on the off-day Stan found he couldn't handle their damning whispers, he need only stretch out a hand -- Kyle would always be there. Kenny couldn't belittle or despise Stan and Kyle's relationship if he tried; it was simply too much of a perfect thing to mar with envy -- finding one's equal and counterpart in character, humor, and intelligence was so rare, especially while still so young. At least, Kenny preferred to think of it that way; it would be just his luck if every fuck in the world but him had obtained the mythical "super best friend." 

_Or maybe it would just serve me right,_ Kenny amended, every bit as bitter and soiled as his construction boots, but not half as dignified.

The next breeze cooled the back of his neck, and Kenny felt the phantom reminder of where a hand had once laid, now two weeks past.

Up ahead, a man worked at the base of a raised crop row with a sand shovel. He was dressed like his landscape: dry heather browns, knotted here and there with bunches of yellowing shortgrass in the form of patchwork sewing. It was unclear where the dirt ended and the man began, but as they approached, the outline of his figure began to peel from the backdrop and become a living, working thing.

"The geese got out again, Murph." Kenny called.

Old man Murphy straightened his curled back like a thing resurrected. His leather skin split at once into a gap-toothed, ash-stained grin that somehow transported the old but springy farmer back to his early 50s. Murphy wore a sweater-vest over his usual flannel and a hat lined with tanned fox fur; the string which originally tied the earflaps in position had snapped and appeared to have been recently jury-rigged with an old bra strap. Old man Murphy was probably one of Kenny's favorite people in South Park. After old woman Murphy, of course.

"Ah," he said, a sound like a sputtering gurgling coffee machine. "Let 'em! Creatures of habit, those birds! Always back at the coop before dark." 

He always seemed to be nodding to himself, old man Murphy. Kenny recognized the tick; his great-uncle and only surviving relative on his dad's side of the family did the same. Grunkle McCormick had an aneurysm a few years back, and since then had never quite stopped wobbling (though Kenny suspected the compulsion also had something to do with the excessive drinking and chewing tobacco lifestyle that had wiped out the rest of the elder McCormicks). 

"You boys lookin' for work?" Murphy said, nodding. 

"Just passing through," Stan said.

Kenny scanned the fields, but it seemed only Murphy, a scattering of ravens, and the motionless silhouettes of a few grazing cattle had decided to spend their Sunday afternoon out in the fields. Sometimes Murphy's niece drove down from Fort Collins to help the old man tend his crop, but each year he saw her less and less. Kenny had been quite infatuated with Helena -- the way all young boys are at times enchanted by older, self-assured women -- and he missed the sight of her dry heather hair and pale cloudy day skin bobbing like a healthy comb of wheat against South Park's otherwise ruddy, half-dead complexion. Kenny spent two years in middle school working on the Murphy acreage, trying to catch her laughing eye. For two summers he shoveled shit, chased geese, and pushed a hand-plough through the fields until his youth burned beneath his sun-bronzed skin, bound tightly in ropes of muscle and callous. Until his palms creased, bled, and finally hardened into plates of molten gold. He was there for the girl, first. But then he was there because single-minded, menial labor and back-breaking hardship left no room for his paranoia, no room for the long shadows cast by high tides of panic and the larger leviathan of approaching adulthood. 

Kenny pulled off his gloves and turned over his hands. They were soft now, pale and vulnerable. All evidence of those lonely, bittersweet summers wiped away. Would he completely forget about them, he wondered, without the memory imprinted on his skin? Somewhere between his shoulder blades, the seed of a headache split, murmured its dire prediction.

"-- earlier and earlier every year," Murphy was saying. "Any day now the kids'll catch on and start up their games."

Kenny cut in. "And Ambrose, what's he think?"

"Ah!" The old man squawked suddenly, giving Stan a start. The master farmer turned to squint into the distance at the shadows of the standing cattle. "That old bag of bones! Tried to lead him over the ice to the nicer pasture, but the old cur just sniffed -- wouldn't lift a hoof."

Murphy turned his squinting eye back to Kenny. "But a near 2-ton walkin' fossil like Ambr' is a different matter. Kin, you take yer friend 'round the shallow end, ice'll hold no problem."

An oil spill of unease spread at the base of his throat, but Stan was already tugging him along the crop row toward the South Park Pond, waving his thanks back at the old farmer. 

Kenny looked over his shoulder. Murphy picked up his shovel, still nodding. 

As they left the farmer's property, a thin layer of trees gradually rose up around them. The air was alive with the movement of leaves -- dead, dying, careening colliding and crashing -- and branches tittered to each other in the breeze. The mottled yellow grass moistened beneath their feet as Stan and Kenny followed the slope of the hill down to the pond. Kenny allowed random surface thoughts to lap at his consciousness in slow rises and pulls -- (the crunch of death and rebirth beneath his feet, Ambrose's big slow eyes, the flash of Cartman's black and gold Pittsburgh jersey on the ice rink) -- but some thoughts were stickier than others; they interrupted his self-taught meditation with swirling eddies of flashing images and sensations -- (a scrabbling sound in the dark, the portrait of an inscrutable young woman bathed in amber, a warm weight on the back of his neck) -- and Kenny's desperate attempts to put off his migraine were doomed to fail. 

At the shoreline, he finally refocused his attention to the present. Stan was already gliding away from him on the surface of the ice, unbothered by the pockets of thin black ice dotted over the white-blue plain. Kenny shoved off after him. 

''Stan!" He barked. "You're headed for the center, dumbass!"

Stan tossed his response over his shoulder. "Dude, relax, it's fine -- I can tell. If we go all the way around it'll take like half an hour to get to Cartman's place."

 _Relax,_ spat Kenny's paranoia. _Now_ that's _a laugh._ Nevertheless, he followed Stan across the ice. Tall dark wraiths dotted the opposite shoreline, a welcoming party of gnarled wood and knothole eyes. The familiar swaying rhythm of skating lulled Kenny back into a reverie. How many countless winters had they tussled and fought over this frozen territory? How many pond hockey tournaments organized between elementary classes, schools, and later counties -- how many vicious games of Bulldogs played out on this ice, with only the trees for spectators? He remembered how like a force of nature the four of them could be, provided they had a common goal.

 _Right here,_ Kenny thought, skidding to a slow stop in the center of the pond. A dark vortex yawned beneath a sheet of ice like glass; Years ago in a game of Bulldogs, their classmate Clyde Donovan had fallen prey to one of Cartman and Kenny's tag-team maneuvers -- Eric buckling his legs while Kenny leapt to pin him by the shoulders. Except a flying elbow caught Clyde in the face and his nose had bled all over the ice like a stuck pig. The story had been traded like currency through the sixth grade, acquiring something of a legendary quality under all the new details, until finally the PTA banned the games. _Here's where his blood stained the ice_.

The surface ice over the deep pocket was veined in pale cracks. Kenny bet he wouldn't feel a thing, drowning here. Probably would be too numb to even feel the cold. The pond's dark ring of wraiths whispered among themselves, but Kenny heard nothing. He had stopped breathing, but didn't entirely notice. The yawning dark mouth beneath the ice was captivating, almost pulsating beneath his gaze. He toed his boot at one of the larger cracks. All he had to do was --

" _Fuck you fuck you fuuuuuck you -- it's the big bad wolf! --_ " Kenny jerked from his trance and after a moment of utter bewilderment, yanked his glove off with his teeth and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He hadn't listened to this particular Yelawolf track in a _long_ time, and it took him a moment to recall whose ringtone it was.

He bullied the touch screen with his cold fingertips.

"-- where the fuck are you guys," came a quick demand. 

Kenny hid his startled grin behind his hand, then dropped it after a quick scan of his surroundings confirmed not a soul in listening distance, and nobody to witness his spasmodic chortle upon receiving a phone call from his best friend. At the treeline, Stan had turned to flap his arms at Kenny in a _what the fuck are you doing_ gesture. Kenny flapped back a much more ambiguous response. 

"Unh..." Kenny yanked his glove from his mouth and attempted a more intelligent response. "We're ten minutes out. We walked."

"You take the road?"

Kenny paused. "No, actually... we took the pond way. Cuts the distance in half." _Of course he already fucking knows that, you idiot._

There was a shuffle on the other end. Kenny imagined Cartman taking the phone down from his ear, probably some indiscernible look crossing his blood red eyes. "You cross it already?"

"I'm standing on it, actually."

"Well how 'bout you get your ass _moving_ on it, McCormick?" Came his abrupt response, ringing with the usual brutality. 

"I'm moving, I'm moving." Kenny adjusted his hold on his phone and, without a second glance at the dark portal beneath the ice, initiated a glide toward the edge of the pond. 

"What's Stan doing?"

"He's on the other side, probably wishing I was Kyle."

A deep sigh blew static into his ear, and this time Kenny knew exactly what was happening on the other end of the line, saw it clear as day in his head -- the hockey captain pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, a crease between his eyebrows. Kenny accelerated with a few long steps. "Hey," another two steps. "Are you worried about me?"

"...Just get your ass over here. And next time -- get a ride with one of the guys from the rink, alright? Jesus."

Kenny skidded across the last meter of ice and tackled Stan into leaves. The trees tittered, the boys laughed into the open sky, and faraway fires still burned on the horizon.


	5. Chapter 5

### Judgement

Behind the bathroom door the sour bile lurching in my stomach made its desperate lunge for the toilet. My subconscious recoiled from the physical world, beginning an auto-pilot spew of useless information -- it was as if every single part of me were throwing up at once. 

The human being -- body and mind -- is never more pathetic and vulnerable than when it is a heaving, puking animal. In the initial throes, the mind offers a sympathetic deluge of adrenaline to amplify the five major senses: the bile scalds my throat, the thunder of colliding fluids fills my ears; the bathroom light is blinding and the tile is cold. In the following moments the conscious mind's only power is submission while the body unleashes a cacophony of survival instinct; the trachea slams closed, the abdominal muscles pull up grasping _squeezing_ the stomach lining like bitch-ass Kirby in the Master Hand, and as the ribs tighten rise and _reach_ every ounce of flesh blooms with sweat like rainfall in reverse. I felt my mind recede on caravans of enzyme through the blood stream, and secondary senses like proprioception began to fade -- awareness of my body's position in space was reduced to a faint 2-dimensional shade cast on the back of my skull; I am become gray, a plaintive survivor strung between worlds.

When it was over I rocked back on my heels and clutched at my neck searching for something, anything to hold on to. The knobs of my shoulders offered no purchase. Finally I settled for pulling at my hair like a crackhead, deciding to wait to become human again -- or at least until the sweat dried on my skin. My hair molded into short dry spikes from hours of sweating under a helmet. The distant sound of music from the garage drifted under the crack of the door. What was it this time? My subconscious mind wondered dimly. Something with good heavy bass. Mastodon -- no, it was Queens of the Stone Age. 

I spat the last of the yellow backwash into the sink and tried in vain to wash the red hollows from my eyes. It was hard to recognize the creature in the mirror, so I stared, objectifying, like an out-of-body observer or a ghost sizing up a haunt. When had my eyes sunk into my head, I wondered -- when had those great gray veins crept over my forehead? From out of my synapse forests -- still somewhat sluggish, hungover in the aftermath of trauma -- a random memory floated forward; it was Kenny's voice from that night, a little spun-drunk from tiredness and nerves -- _red, you know? like blood_ \-- and I tried but could not see what he saw. Caught between stress-blown irises and watered-down whites were only thin rings of brown. Splotched, irregular. The faintly pink and red webbing of capillaries reminded me of the dream, the blood-flecked froth eking from his nose and mouth. Asphyxia, bloating. An unlovely death, but perhaps an easy one. 

There was puke on my shirt. I pulled it off and exchanged it for one of the others lying around. The new one was a _Budgie_ shirt -- a shirt I hadn't worn and a band I hadn't listened to since middle school. After a last futile attempt to rub the freckles from the bridge of my nose, I finally walked away from the creature in the mirror. The garage was a hum of activity, occupied by home invaders from the varsity hockey team who had dropped me off and refused to leave. Instead of rejoining them, I veered into the kitchen and busied myself setting the coffee maker. I recalled the disturbing phone call, and the strange intuition that prompted me to make it. _Intuition, or premonition?_ came a voice. _No --_ my reason retched at the implication -- I wasn't a fucking gypsy. I wasn't Mrs. fucking Mawal. 

And last night? I wondered. What about last night's predictions? The pockmarked ice, a pair of familiar well-worn boots, the blood-flecked froth. I hadn't thought of it all day -- tried desperately _not_ to think of it -- until I considered the walking trajectory from the skating rink to my neighborhood. I told myself they wouldn't take the ice. It was too early in the season for it. Even the pond hockey games never started up until November at the earliest. And I thought since Stan was with him... Stanley was supposed to be the guy who took care of people; he didn't _do_ stupid shit. Not like me -- at my least dangerous I was the guy daring people to _eat_ said stupid shit. 

_Are you worried about me?_ he'd asked. Was I worried about Kenny McCormick? _No._ Maybe. If worry was the acid rush in my throat when the memory arose, unbidden, of a truck folded around a tree -- if worry was the cold punch to my lungs when the pop and hiss of an opening can brought to mind the pockmarked ice, the blood-flecked froth, or a dozen other images of his dead, resigned face. Then shit, yeah, I guess I was worried. If the little punk ass got himself killed, then... _Then?_ I shook the thought loose before it could split sprout and grow. 

I remembered the morning after finding Worm. It had been so easy, for a while, to be together, to chill on the couch, fading in and out of consciousness while Kenny started up a Bioshock run on the PlayStation3. He made a perfectly sadistic Jack Ryan. But at some point while watching him slaughter Little Sisters and shove hypos in his wrists, I thought I caught the glitter of glass like tiny diamonds in his hairline, and then the shimmer of blood at his brow. My stomach had turned over my cornflakes, and after that, I couldn't look. I kicked him out.

I re-entered the garage with the last of that gray feeling dragging on my heels. It was impossible to ignore the absence of my mother's car. I still couldn't bring myself to park the Volvo inside. What if she came back? 

The space heater in the garage did an excellent job, even in Colorado's deepest darkest winter months, but for some reason I hadn't been able to shake the cold from my paws for weeks on end -- it was only October, the fall foliage was still in its death throes -- so why was I so damned numb?

It would be just like Kenny, I thought. The goddamned Ophelia, walking into the waves without weights or chains just to get a good fucking gander at death. It wasn't fatalism or depression it was _conceit_ \-- death repulsed him but fascinated him enough to want to creep closer to it... enough to test the pockmarked ice of a familiar pond. But this wasn't premonition; it couldn't be -- this suspicion creeping up from my hindbrain was nothing but the psychological echo of a vivid dream. And like all of society's slaves I had learned to silence my gut instincts with reason and that sacred set of rules we call the scientific method -- not two hundred years past throwing bones and turtle shells. 

_Bullshit,_ it insisted; one coincidence of a shared dream was definitely _not_ positing criteria for _divination._

 _It doesn't matter what you want to call it,_ a voice said.

"You alright, man? You haven't touched your Nos."

For once, it was better to focus on the realities. I was a bag of flesh, blood and bone. My ears still rang with the echo of blades cutting into ice, pucks clanging off goal posts, bodies crashing into boards. The human skull was just a massive conch shell, after all. What we mistook for the ancient memory of a churning sea was really just the mundane swish and flow of blood vessels in the inner ear. What made my dumb bestial instincts churn with dread was really just a biochemical misunderstanding of a disillusioned dream-consciousness. I was surprised to see both of them at the game today. Pre-season scrimmages were often the bloodiest -- as captain it was my responsibility to set a precedent leading into the official ice hockey season: the precedent that nobody could fuck with my boys, not without getting hurt. A clean, passive hockey team in the pre-season was a doomed one. My body felt as if it had submitted to a great violence; my shoulders ached, my bones creaked. And my stomach always, always turning. 

I waved away an offered cigarette. "No, Jim. Stop fucking smoking." The last time I'd had one was -- Jesus, two weeks ago? 

"Whatever you say, boss," The younger Larson chuckled, sticking the cigarette between his lips as he moved over to the cooler to grab a beer. 

" _Eat_ something Eric, for fuck's sake," came another laugh from my side.

I cracked open the Nos, took a sip, set it down. The carbonation bullied my stomach into submission for a few precious moments. My fingers stuttered over the joint I was trying to roll, and I cursed, putting the paper down to assess the damage. The ugly scars on my knuckles were purpled with cold, but I felt sweat building on my forehead. 

The doorbell nearly sent me out of my skin. I abandoned the rolling papers, the bud, the Nos, and left the milling chattering hockey team in the garage.

I don't know what I was expecting to see -- a blast from the past? Two fidgeting kids with their own guitar hero controllers, or maybe something from the present, two cocksure assholes I'd been trying to imagine life without since we were 13. As long as it wasn't the blood-flecked froth. I didn't get any of it. Instead, I found two sets of wide owlet eyes staring up at me. They were bugging. 

"You guys are bugging." I said. _Why is everyone around here always fucking bugging?_ I thought, feeling a hot wave of irritation. 

They both started up a montage of crazed story-telling. In an instant I've got a face full of Stan's waving fucking arms. He tells stories just like his dad.

Tired of waiting for their talking to make sense, I pulled Stan through the door and jerked my head at Kenny. After the door was closed behind them, I finally managed to put together what they were trying to say: they were just walking up to the door of my house when a flat-faced animal with moon-gray fur and massive amber eyes appeared out of nowhere and vomited a load of flowers onto my walkway. I asked where it went. Stan said it "disappeared." "It was just really fuckin' _bizarre_ , man," He kept saying. Marsh clearly couldn't attach any real significance to the random encounter, but I saw a flicker of dread cross Kenny's face. 

Stan shot off to the bathroom. Kenny pulled the strings on his hood. 

"Flowers, huh?" I acknowledged, trying to be careful, like Godzilla in a Smurf village.

He shrugged. I wanted to ask what kind of flowers, but that would freak him out. I wanted to ask if he thought it was the same cat from before, but there was no need: of _course_ it was. Kenny began to drift like a tumbleweed toward the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. I trailed after him, a ghost in my own home. From a cluster of shadows by the sink I scrutinized McCormick's every move. The small things, the casual traces of life held in the lilt of his shoulders, the jerk and pull of his hands, and the flush over his cheekbones -- it was absorbing. God, but it was good to see him again. 

He lifted my Crabby in the Morning mug with a questioning side-eye. I shook my head minutely. No; the thought of dumping coffee into my mutinous stomach stirred the pain in my abdomen into a foreboding throb. Kenny's hands flickered through the cabinets and fridge until his elixir was prepared, then turned to lean against the counter. He lifted the old _101 Dalmations_ cup to his mouth for the first sip -- and I gradually realize he is watching me.

"What you staring at." I said. 

Kenny shrugged. I want to rip the hood off his head.

Stan slam-bangs out of the bathroom like a new character on set of some shitty sit-com -- except there's no annoying laugh-track, and for an instant I want to make like a marsh lion and tear the skin off his throat. He stretched his arms over his head with a pleased groan. 

"Good match, by the way. Honestly I think you guys are pretty good for this season," Stan said. "You mighta gone too easy on Gorski, though, I gotta say."

Gorski was Adams County slime, like a lot of members of the teams we played that afternoon, but there was a particular reason I left him out of the brawl today. Trust Stan Hawkeye fucking Marsh to pick up on something so subtle sitting on the bleachers two effing miles away -- but Stan had always had an eye for strategy; it was part of the reason P.C. High put him on the football team his freshman year, even if he just refilled water jugs at the first few games.

"Gorski's time will come." I said.

Suspicion dawned over Marsh's face, but his snort was half-appreciative. " _Duude._ Okay, I don't even want to know." 

As he talked, Stan reached his arm out to me at a familiar angle, luring my own arm into a quick series of slaps and knocks. Our shoulders bump together briefly, and before I could even begin to comprehend how the fuck I still remembered that handshake, Marsh was already leading the way out of the kitchen. "It's good to see you again, man. The garage, right? Listen, I want you around for this Halloween, I just talked to old man Murphy -- "

I pushed Kenny in front of me. Stan's conversation was all over the place, but that's what made him so easy to talk to -- he left a lot of fish hooks. I felt a pendulous gonging in my chest; I had missed my black-haired brother. 

In the garage, Kyuss was murdering a guitar solo on the speakers. Whitman and Jim Larson were playing a loud drinking game in between rounds of hacky-sack. The elder Larson and Teddy, my ginger goalkeeper, talked Stanley Cup prospects in the corner by the space heater. The extras -- (the two forward substitutes and Teddy's girlfriend) -- who came for the beer and pizza had unfolded a kid-sized plastic billiards table and begun a round of threes. The team's collective hetero-normative myopia wore me out at times, but that's why I needed hockey. I found enormous comfort in the ruthless pursuit of a common goal. On the ice, everything was so obvious to me, like clicking into set of instincts I'd always had but never learned to use properly -- fast reflexes, good coordination, the ability to visualize victory and stop at nothing to make it happen. The company of the team was an annoying exponential quantity in my algorithm for victory. If we can't chill together we can't compete together. It took a lot of effort, but I was patient to win.

In the warm raw noise of the garage, I'd hardly managed to shut the door when I noticed a shadowy figure in my periphery, nosing around my two old friends like a suspicious beagle. My defensive wing was a ragged animal -- an image completed by the patchy beard haunting his neck and creeping over his jawline, as well as the matching auburn mane flipping up gently at his collarbone. Although perpetually half-starved looking, the junior crushed more cheeseburgers and donuts in one day than I could really care to count. 

"Mr. President," He finally said, taking off his trucker's hat in a sweeping white-trash parody of a bow. "It is so good, to finally meet you in person."

"Hear! Hear!" Jim cried from the other side of the garage, lifting his drink. "The president!" Sports teams pick up cheers like kids picking up candy trails, or timberwolves picking up a howl. The ragged junior clasped Stan's stunned hand in his own and gave it a fervent flapping.

"Uh, just Stan is fine, thanks. Are you even in the sophomore class?"

"He's not," I said. "Whitman. Down, dog."

Whitman looked peevish, but he released his hold on Stan. "No need to be so modest, Mr. President. Take Eric, for example. We might be off the ice, but he's still our fearless Nazi captain. Just like you're probably still a brown-nosing class president."

" _What --_ " Stan rose to the challenge like a mongoose swaggering up to a cobra. I swear I saw the hackles _rise_ on him. "Bitch-ass stoolie -- who the fuck do you think you are?" 

"Hey, don't fuck with Stan Marsh, man, he got the ban on flip-combs lifted." Kenny said.

I tried for about a second but couldn't hold it back. "He also dropped a fudge dragon in a urinal when we were in elementary." 

In the corner by the space heater, Mike Larson and the goalkeeper Teddy roared with laughter. "He can stay!" Teddy called, lifting his bottle, already flushed from drink and cheer.

In the same way apes beat the piss out of their friends and then picked the bugs out of their hair, things settled back into rhythm after Stan crushed a beer and joined the game of hacky-sack. Dodging rogue balls launched like ceramic missiles from the billiards table, I returned to my stool on the orbit of the chaos. On the folding table in front of me lay an old hand-radio and the remnants of the joint I was trying to roll. Fucking impossible, with fingers this numb. It was like working with baby carrots or unfeeling prosthetic attachments for hands. Unable to concentrate on completing the delicate task, I settled for picking out some of the seeds and stems. Solitude was a cloud passing over the sun. 

"You know you've got Kenny McCormick over there popping wheelies on your mountain bike, right?"

A shadow arrived and wiggled over my table as a broad, barrel-chested senior dragged over a stool and sat beside me with a series of communicative but ultimately wordless grunts and sighs, then took a long pull from his beer.

I tried for almost two seconds, but couldn't keep my eyes from flickering across the garage. And there was Kenny, perched confident and languid on my old mountain bike. I hadn't touched the thing in years -- but its limelight green titanium frame was still flecked with dirt and grass-juice from the last trip to the Jefferson County park trails. Back-country was always the sweetest, though -- shit, we used to hike for miles to the best spots! Kenny stood on the pedals, adjusted his weight, and popped the bike up onto its front wheel in a small inverse wheelie, once, twice, paused on the threshold. His hood fell. I noticed a cigarette tucked behind his ear -- as if he was anticipating anxiety but hadn't quite warmed up to it yet. I was beastly glad the hood fell -- I liked seeing the curving stalk of the back of his neck, the silver studs flashing in his ears, the way his hair dirtied from blond to brown in the back -- _Oh, shit._

When I shifted my gaze back to Teddy -- sipping his drink and scratching his armpit with one of his goalkeeper's paws -- I saw a kind of appraising greed on his face, hidden under a blushing blanket of freckles. Ted Wallis was like King Louie from the Jungle Book: not an overtly malicious guy, but often possessed by an insatiable curiosity. _What was he_ \-- And then I realized two things: I had been staring too long; and Kenny looked _really fucking good._

"And what do _you_ know," I measured out. "About Kenny McCormick?"

Teddy leaned back, King Louie on his throne, and laughed like I was the fucking joke of the century. "I think I should be asking you that. I didn't know you guys hung out."

Operation: brush-off. "Yeah, well. Keep an eye on your girlfriend. He's got a history with cute brunettes."

Teddy squinted at me, turned to look at the billiards table, then back at me. "That's my sister, you fuck. She's been to our last _three_ games."

Oops. Operation: subject-change. I eyed the girl again. "So are you the only one in your family who didn't inherit a soul?"

"I'm the fucking sunshine to my family, dude, and you know it. Don't start that ginger shit with me again," He said. "How d'you know McCormick? You guys tight?" 

_Why is he so fucking interested?_ "You got a card?"

He heaved a sigh through his nose but began digging through his pocket. "I can't believe you don't have a single fucking card on you."

"Look at me, man, I'm in my own damn house. Of course I haven't got my wallet on me. I'm wearing a bloody _Budgie_ shirt, for Christ's sake." It was true. Remnants of an old nose-bleed stained the collar -- after that I never bitched about wearing the catcher's mask.

Teddy sighed again for dramatic effect and tossed a card to me without any real fuss. His debit card -- I already knew the PIN number from witnessing years of the team's frequent stops to roadside fast food joints -- IHOP, Taco Bell, Chipotle. I picked up the card and started scraping at the scattered fibers of weed. Accidentally memorized the account number -- I had no plan for the information; it was just there, catalogued. For now my only use for the card was to arrange the shredded bud into a nice line.

Teddy waited, finished the last of his beer, pretended to examine the label. His curiosity unappeased, I felt him gradually tense with impatience at my side, but I forced my attention to stay on the card table, away from the impatient goalkeeper and far away from the blond fucking around on my mountain bike.

"I've never met him, actually," He broke. "I'm only going on what I've heard."

It was hard to pretend not to be interested, but I managed to avoid looking up from my work. "Oh yeah? And what have you heard." 

Ted made as if to hesitate, but I guess the desire to spill was too strong. "I heard he guides people through bear territory for a little extra cash -- "

I didn't know that, but I supposed it was possible. McCormick went hunting in the mountains a lot with his dad when we were young. Wouldn't surprise me if he learned the territory and took advantage of tourists and thrill-seekers.

" -- he can use tongue clicks to see in the dark, like a fucking bat -- " 

_..Are you fucking kidding me._

"And..." Teddy continued, laying in the dramatic pause. It was all for the theatre, with King Louie. "I know Rainer Fichte beat the shit out of him last year. And it takes a solid pair to go head-to-head with Fichte, we both know that."

Ted Wallis wasn't easy to impress. It seemed Kenny had managed it through hearsay.

"Listen, man, coming clean -- I want one of those bear tours; can you get me in?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halloween is Coming.

### Justice, Reversed

He was good at parties. Until something or someone caught his interest, Kenny became a fly on the wall. He had always been that way; and after a while he was so accustomed to the safety of the sidelines that the habit impacted his personality: never before considered a reclusive or in any way anti-social child, Kenny became the "quiet kid" simply because he was the kind of guy who couldn't be bothered to give a shit. (This character trait may also have something to do with the fact that Kenny spent the better part of his childhood experiencing death -- murder, mutilation, wretched disease -- several times a week.) 

He might've been a convincing fly on the wall, but not an entirely disinterested one. Kenny popped another wheelie. Even at the threshold, balanced on a single forward wheel with his eyes trained on the handle-bars, Kenny knew the approximate location of everyone in the room. He knew where to look for Cartman, on the perimeter of the pool game, hunched over his card table. He noticed that the red-faced goal-keeper was trying -- unsuccessfully, it seemed -- to coax a conversation out of his captain. 

"Dude, sick. Can you teach me how to do that?"

Kenny could hardly ignore the junior buzzing around his knees, the one most people called "dog" but who Kenny knew as Rod Whitman. They had grown up in the same neighborhood, after all. He didn't think messing around in a corner on Eric's mountain bike would be that conspicuous, but he'd hardly pulled the frame under his ass before the hairy, ragged junior was nosing up to him. 

"Do you bike?" 

"No, but I can drive a tractor."

 _Big whoop I can push a hand-plough --_ Kenny thought venomously. 

"About before, y'know, I didn't mean nothin', pokin' at your friend. We just like to keep things interesting, 'round here. Keeps the captain in his spirits, you know?"

He struggled to understand Cartman's relationship with the hockey team; but it was difficult to think clearly while he was busy resenting their closeness. "Closeness" with Eric Cartman was already kind of a laughable phrase -- but they were there, weren't they? Seven or eight strangers were making merry in the same garage the four of them had used for band practice and occasionally superhero meetings in the past. Did they have any idea? Did they have any idea who they were _dealing_ with? 

"What do _you_ know," Kenny spat. "About Eric Cartman?" 

The very idea that this starved-looking townie had any idea who Cartman was -- it made Kenny want to laugh in his face.

The rear wheel thumped softly back on the floor. He reconsidered his position. Cartman looked like something chewed on and spit back up. If not for the clothes on his back he might be colorless, all pale planes and gray shadows -- it reminded Kenny uncomfortably of Worm. How could this be? He wondered. Not two hours ago Cartman was nothing short of the hand of God on ice -- a black and gold crash of thunder and the rattle of plexiglass. This couldn't be him -- this gray thing wore the skin of Cartman, but it was pulled and piled in odd places. Unrecognizable, if not for the same old pair of red eyes sunk beneath the surface. 

Even Kenny didn't know who he was dealing with, he realized. After the bewildering appearance of the moon-gray cat -- shying out of the bushes just to puke at his feet -- Kenny was not hardly prepared to see Cartman looking so inconceivably ill.

"You see, McCormick," Whitman said. "Most people got blood running through their veins, but the captain? He runs on somethin' else. A kind of toxic goo -- it's why he don't gotta eat like the rest of us. Makes him invincible, sure, but when he's not movin', all that sludge has nothin' to do, so it just settles down -- gotta keep shaking him up to keep him going, see?"

Kenny chuckled. "Get outa here."

"I swear by it!" Whitman bared his ash-flecked teeth in excitement. "Mam calls it mucus. Everybody's got four kinds, 'cept Cartman only has one, the black kind. All that toxic goo, just settles right down like bum hoppies in a home brew; gotta shake it up agin or else it starts fermenting -- and boy you don't wanna be around Cartman when his juices ain't flowin' properly."

"...black _goo?_ "

" _Mucus,_ man, gleaned from the tears of innocent souls."

"I remember, old woman Murphy called it bile."

"Oh-ho that's right -- you worked on the Murphy farm too, right? I left a year b'fore you came, I think."

"You worked on the Murphy acreage?"

"Just a year -- Jenkins paid better." He winked.

At the sound of a whistle, Whitman loped off across the room without another word, rejoining the younger Larson in a loud drinking game Kenny didn't understand: on the count of three, the two each held up a number of fingers and shouted -- after a few rounds, inevitably one of them would "lose" and have to drink. 

Kenny was just waffling over to the decision to smoke the cigarette behind his ear -- instead, he reached for his coffee cup. It was gone. In the time since Whitman left, he had been so occupied by his own shadow-play that he'd lost touch with his surroundings: most importantly, the fact that his mug had acquired new ownership.

"Are you bored?"

"No," Kenny said. He settled back on the bike, pushed it forward and back with small movements of the pedals. 

Cartman was so pale he leapt from the garage's festive background and seemed to draw shadows in around him. Kenny thought of the black bile.

"Whitman hounding you?"

"No," Kenny said, waiting for the hockey captain to make his point. It wasn't like him to pussyfoot around.

"Ted thinks you can use echo-location with tongue clicks. Like a fucking bat."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "That was _one time_ \-- "

"So it's true?" Cartman's eyes drilled into him. "You givin' tours of bear country, too?"

"Do you seriously need to ask me this?"

"Even my information network has holes, Kenny."

" _No_ , it doesn't," Kenny insisted. He couldn't help it -- there was _nothing_ Cartman didn't know, _especially_ when it came to the lives of his classmates. Kenny made his way in the world as the fly but Cartman was without a doubt the spider watching them all, with a legion of spiders beneath him to do his bidding. The only reason Cartman could have for _not_ knowing is if he was actively _trying_ not to know.

"What are you saying? I'm ignoring you just because I don't know what you do in your free time any more? Get over yourself, McCormick."

The bike rolled forward a few inches, then back. 

From the corner of his eye, Kenny watched his friend paw at the back of his neck. "Teddy wants a bear tour." He murmured. 

Cartman drank from the coffee mug, then put it back down on the old turntable cabinet. He wasn't looking for an answer, so Kenny didn't give him one. Instead, he clamped one hand on the center of the handlebars and reclaimed the coffee. 

Cartman heaved a sigh. "Listen, Axel's coming over in a bit."

When he looked up, Cartman's blood red eyes were boring into him from their shadowed pits. Kenny had to look away.

"You gonna freak out?"

He rolled the bike backward a few careful inches. "Why would I freak out?"

A hurricane of memory swept up from his toes -- the sour smell of alcohol and bile, panic like an ice berg carving a path through his rib cage -- 

"You _know_ why."

 _But how does_ he _know?_ Kenny wondered. Sure, he could blame many a panic attack on solely the memory of that night, but for the most part Kenny could barely grasp the reasons behind his episodes. How could Cartman possibly manage to read so far -- and so correctly -- into it? Kenny reconsidered Stan's theory in a new light; Cartman might be a touch telepath, like Spock.

_They didn't arrive at the right house until a quarter past two in the morning._

_"It's just getting started."_

_The inside was a living thumping swell of bodies. He quickly lost Cartman after he met up with a leering, dark-haired adolescent and disappeared into a dark maze of hallways inside the house._

_Kenny found a spot by the lava lamp and a dusty CD collection to do what he did best -- the trick to becoming a fly on the wall was to first bump heads with the light. He was 15 years old at the time but he already knew the way of things, he thought. At least, he knew enough to prefer cows over people, cock crows over tween wave, the smell of burning sugar cane over the stench of sweat and skin. As he watched the snakelike writhing shadows of bodies cast on walls, Kenny remembered how much he preferred wide horizons and the faraway upturned comb of blue mountain range._

_He didn't remember how long he spaced out by the lava lamp, only that he turned down two offers for a tab of acid, three for molly, and one blowjob._

_When Axel first ambled up to him, Kenny thought he knew his story after a single glance: a young, impressionable punk recruited by the local gangs to sell drugs at high school parties. He was Hispanic, probably from a poor neighborhood, too slim and too doe-eyed to pluck his way out of conflict on physical strength alone; Axel would've had to learn early on how to be smart, and persuasive._

_The middle schooler approached his softly glowing corner, all bony elbows and dark-rimmed eyes. Kenny's hunch was confirmed when another shadow peeled from the wall to hover over the kid's shoulder -- his back-up, no doubt, all dealers seemed to have them -- a kid not much older than Axel but distinctly taller, broader, and rather distant in the eyes._

_"Kenny. Meet Axel." But then Cartman materialized, and at 15 years old the freshman hockey player already dwarfed the middle school duo in both height and presence._

_Kenny at once noted that his friend's face was an alarming shade of lilac, his eyes dark pits fitted with watering whites turned pink by burst capillaries -- they quivered like fearful, wounded white rabbits in the dark. Everything about Cartman seemed watery; he wobbled in the light of the lava lamp; even the hand he laid on Axel's sharp shoulder seemed to shutter and shift in the soft light._

_"Ax. McCormick."_

_Axel's brown eyes swam close, rimmed like Ambrose's in dark lashes but glinting with the quick intelligence of a raven._

_"Hey, McCormick," The boy had a reedy voice and a prominent lisp. "You ever had a space monkey?"_

_Kenny did some quick mental calculation -- was this new slang for a drug? a new word for girlfriend? a monkey in a space suit? -- but got nothing._

_"What is a space monkey, Axel?"_

_"Space monkey's when ya lay down, and Jose here's gonna sit on your chest till you hyperventilate and pass out."_

_"Gets ya real high," Axel added with a wink._

_Kenny could only stare, dumbfounded._

_Cartman burst into a merry-go-round of giggles, like Kenny had never seen. Someone from the crowd bumped Eric from behind, and he turned to accept a small glass of something. Then he melded back into the shadowy pulse and sway of bodies, leaving Kenny alone with the underaged salesman._

_"They only listen to shit at these things," Axel said, flipping through the dusty CD collection. "Tween wave, I tell ya. Ever since then its been nothing but more shit."_

_Kenny agreed, remembered thinking the kid might get along well with Stan. After that, his memory blurred to when he saw Cartman again, puking violently and largely limp in the grasp of a tall dark character Kenny knew to be the junior Rainer Fichte. Whatever happened between the time Cartman left -- as a self-propelling vessel -- and reappeared as the twisting shadow of a body, even in the present Kenny only had guesses._

_"Get him out of here -- " Rainer was howling._

_The music started to pulse in tune with Kenny's blood rushing. What was this -- Kenny remembered wondering -- this horrible feeling in his gut? He'd never felt such cold, physical dread before -- he couldn't move his legs any more than he could breathe. He vaguely noted that Rainer appeared to be wrestling Eric to the front door, and alarm bells chimed in his head._

_"Time's up," Axel's lisping voice drifted through Kenny's ears and across his eyes, a thin mist of narrative confirmation for the night's bizarre events._

_He was encouraged to stand by a hand on his arm._

_"Better go, 'fore shit starts turning back into pumpkins."_

_Some words in Spanish were exchanged between the middle schoolers, and Kenny was pulled through the crowd and back out into the night, in a foreign North Park neighborhood. The streetlights wiped out the stars, entrapping the four of them in a humming embryonic glow. Cartman bent over his knees outside the door, not puking anymore but wobbling despite Rainer's hand fisted in the hood of his jacket._

_"Good," Rainer rasped as Axel emerged. "His car is there, just take him home."_

_"I don't know how to_ drive _." Axel said._

 _"You got over the fucking border_ somehow _," The junior spat. He looked over at Kenny. "What about him?"_

_"Uh," Axel glanced at him. "He can't drive either."_

_"What did_ he _take?"_

_Axel shrugged. Rainer's face was carved from murderous swathes of shadow. "Just help me get him in the fucking car."_

_When Kenny was situated in the back seat with the less than half-conscious form of Eric Cartman, Rainer slammed the Volvo into gear, and at the last minute Axel opened the door and slipped into the front seat._

_"You don't think he needs to go to the hospital?"_

_There were rolling cans beneath his feet. The whole frame of the Volvo sedan seemed to squeak squeal and sing as it suffered under new ownership -- Rainer pulled the car viciously around corners, slowly picking their way out of the labyrinthine North Park neighborhood. Kenny contemplated the nature of time, the texture of the cold pleather seat beneath his ass and fingertips, the occasional orange flash of passing streetlights. A rock outfit with a haunting message eked from Cartman's stereo system, the least outdated part of the car. Rainer cursed and punched the dials, but managed only to change the song. It started with a woman's voice -- Kenny latched onto it and for a few precious moments sunk his thoughts into her deep baritone: " -- you are listening to W-O-M-B, the_ womb _. And if you listen carefully -- " The car growled and crunched over a deep scar in the road. "I'll let you crawl back in."_

_Cartman groaned long and low like a wildebeest under lion's claws._

_"You don't think -- "_

_"He_ doesn't _need to go to the hospital, for the last fucking time." Kenny didn't know how long they'd been arguing back an forth, the oddball Hispanic 13-year-old and the underground king of Park County high._

_"What did you just say?" Rainer suddenly hacked, put on a turn of speed as the roads opened out from neighborhoods to main roads._

_"_ What? _" He said again._

_"I said I told you that shit was laced!" The kid shouted suddenly._

_The car stopped moving but all of Kenny's insides accelerated into his ribs -- he was reminded of his body's composition, the mass of tubes and semi-solids squeezing liquids and more semi-solids around itself until the day he would expire. Cartman coughed, gurgled around some puke. As Kenny moved to make sure he wasn't choking, he was vaguely aware of car doors opening and the two fuckheads from the front seat shouting bloody murder at each other on the side of the road._

_" -- it looked different, if you'd just smelled -- "_

_" -- what was I supposed to do? Throw it all away 'cause you think you can smell_ cocaine? _"_

_"You fuck someone up, man! You fuck someone up, and you'll be throwing away more than just product -- "_

_Cartman suddenly regained enough motor control to crack the door and spit the rest of his bile on the twilit pavement. The mat at his feet was still covered in puke, but they could deal with that later. When Cartman pulled the door closed again, he leaned against the window and focused one eye on Kenny. It was the first time he noticed the blood red glow in his friend's iris, but he later chalked it up to bad memory._

_"We goin' home?" His voice, or a whisper of wind through the watching trees, Kenny couldn't be sure._

_"Final call, McCormick," Axel leaned into the car. "Home or Hell's Pass?"_

_His sobriety steadied Kenny. "Home. He said home."_

In the garage, Cartman still eyed him. Kenny drank deeply from his mug, then lit up the cigarette.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one is short. But I wanted to post it because it felt heavy.

### Wheel of Fortune, Reversed

"Ted's wasted -- so I'm putting you in charge. No one's allowed upstairs, or in the kitchen; if you want more food you gotta order it. The beer is for you guys. No fireworks. No one touches the AC, and no one fucks with my shit, got me?"

Mike Larson's eyes drifted over to where Kenny sat on my mountain bike.

"Fine, _McCormick_ can fuck with my shit. Anything else?"

The elder Larson shrugged. I eyed him an extra moment. Mike might be a smug bastard, but at least he was a fairly reliable one.

I closed the door on the garage. The inside of the house had grown dark in the late afternoon -- steep, sharp shadows draped over the living room and stairwell, laying them to rest where the setting sun couldn't reach. The face of the standing clock winked through the darkness, caught in a beam of amber thrown from one of the west-facing windows in the kitchen. I had spent a lot of time in this kind of quiet -- just me, the breath of the house, and Kitty's occasional silver softness. Solitude built itself up in shapes and structures, just like houses. The interplay of shadows and ragged beams of sunlight could make every day -- every moment -- look a little different, but in the end I was still living in the same caves and crags. 

_Fuck it already with the metaphors, Eric,_ I chastised.

My arms goose-pimpled in the stirring air. I moved over to the AC and dialed the heat up to 68; mum could yell at me when the bills came in. Then I pulled on one of the sweatshirts thrown over the couch. It smelled like the inside of a hockey bag: damp socks and the melted ice water scraped off of blades, a whiff of Axe. The logo on the chest read Black Label, "flammable material." Probably Teddy's. 

I was just about to pull out my phone when a knock sounded at the door. 

"You get a ride?"

Axel turned in the doorway and gestured to the line of cars outside the house -- Teddy's mom's mini-van parked behind the Volvo in the driveway, the Larson brothers' Mustang propped up on the sidewalk. "Nah, check it out -- new wheels. 100% clean emissions, front-wheel drive. It's changed my world."

"That's a fucking bicycle, Ax." 

"It's a _Stingray_ , you pleeb." His lisp was a fucking riot. 

The sun wrapped probing fingers around him but couldn't sink into Axel's dark, loose curls or his deep brown eyes. It seemed fitting, that he would be a creature of shadow, and one of the few I welcomed into my cave -- even if it was only because I didn't have a choice, at first. 

The glass outer door fell shut with a soft wheeze. Axel fumbled the inner door closed with a bony elbow. He'd probably always have that unsteady, ADHD-look about him, but I also noticed he was 4 or 5 inches taller than when we first met; his jeans weren't cuffed up at the ankle any more, or so threadbare at the knees. 

"You look good."

The kid snorted loudly and without restraint. "You haven't seen the the Independence Day mothership of all pimples colonizing my forehead."

"You're growing up."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say," Axel said, reaching out to clasp elbows in our usual greeting. "It's my turn now. You _don't_ look good, Eric. You look shit. I just wanted to tell you that, no need to beat me down an' save face, or whatever; it's just the two of us. Anyway, I've got something here -- "

He pulled a package from under his arm, brown paper wrapping in the shape of a book. "This was in your mailbox."

I took it from him with the slow deliberation of an ape-creature accepting a tablet computer. There were no markings on the wrapping. 

"Also got about six-hundred letters from the utility vampires. Bills, I s'pose."

I told him to put them in the kitchen, and followed slowly after his awkward, lightly bouncing steps.

"McCormick," I heard him say. "Good to see you again. Sheesh, y'get hotter every time I see ya -- "

"Don't he get hotter," Axel turned to me. "Every time you see 'im?"

I resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose, realizing I'd forgotten to remind the somewhat forward 14-year-old to tone it down a little. 

And there was Kenny, hovering in the corner of the dark kitchen with his coffee mug, hoarding the last rays of sunlight. He seemed to be trying hard not to appear threatened, but I saw his blue eyes dancing tiny pirouettes around the kitchen, tracking the bills on the counter, Axel's small shuddering movements, the package in my hands -- I'd never seen him looking so much like prey, even when he had his head between his knees. It made me want to bring him _down_.

"Don't open that."

"What?" I said.

"I said _don't_ fuckin' open that."

"Why the hell not?" I kind of knew the reason, but wondered if Kenny could articulate it. 

"Because -- okay, starting with Worm, the gypsy cat-lady next door, not to mention the thing from before -- weird shit's been happening lately, and you know it. Besides, you don't have any idea what that is." 

_Lame,_ I thought. Kenny's hair glowed like spun gold in the setting sun. He pulled at it in his frustration. I wondered if he knew how easy he was to read -- any fuck in the world could know what he was thinking just looking at his face.

"I think it's a book." I said, pulling it out of the wrapping in one movement. 

Axel was a thin shadow huffing over my shoulder. We both looked at the words on the binding, but didn't understand them. 

"Well, I dunno about -- " Axel made a vague gesture in the air. "All that, but someone did leave a wicked omen on your doorstep, bro."

"Uh?"

"Yeah, looks like some spit up flowers -- "

"What _kinda_ flowers?" I was sick of hearing about this. 

"I dunno, do I look like a botanist to you? I didn't look that hard -- they were purple, maybe? Blueish -- "

I waved a hand. "Alright, shut up. I'm gonna show you idiots something. Kenny, fetch Stanley and meet us at the front door."

Once my distracting blond friend left the kitchen, I pulled Axel close. "Now for the next five seconds, listen to me _well_. You are not to freak out McCormick. That means no out-of-the-blue comments on his looks, _no_ mention of the business with Rainer, and no -- " I held up the book. "Absolutely _no_ weird fucking shit like this is brought up in front of him, okay? Understand me?"

"Yeah, boss, I get it, I get it -- " Axel gave up trying to pry my hand from his shirt and settled for raising his hands to his ears in surrender. "Wait, what business with Fichte? That little business last year or the _business_ \-- "

I thumped him over the head with the book. His stupid backwards fucking hat fell to the floor. " _All of it, dipshit._ "

"Okay, okay -- sheesh! I'm just a little confused, man. What makes _me_ capable of freaking out _Kenny McCormick?_ The guy's a damned legend in Middle -- after you, obviously -- "

"No -- y'see? _That's_ the shit! That's the kind of shit you drop all the time. I don't wanna hear anything about P.C. fucking Watergate today. I will _kick you out the house._ Kuh-peesh? What -- why are you laughing?"

"Sorry -- it's just," Axel's eyes were two dark crescents. "I've never seen you this shook up over someone else's welfare before, boss."

 _Trust me, it's not for his sake,_ I thought, bemoaning the past few weeks' sleepless nights and my own cluttered conscience. "Axel, you're confused right now. Wanna know why? 'Cause as usual, you're not the one holding all the cards. As you get older, and you get more fucking pimples, you'll start to understand that not only am I holding the best hand, I'm holding the entire _deck_ , and all you've got is jokers."

Axel rolled his eyes and punched at my arm. "Alright, all hail Cartman. Let me go, already, for fuck's sake."

I let him go. He bent down to pick up his hat. "I just have one more question."

He unfurled from the floor in stop-motion, a time-lapse video of a flower blooming under moonlight. Axel's movements always had a jerky fluidity to them, like a marionette's. He twisted the cap back on his head, looked at me from out the corner of his eye. 

"What exactly is so bad about reminding him he's a hottie?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose and shoved him toward the living room. "First of all -- he doesn't _need_ reminding, the Japanese fucking crowned him for being cute and blond when we were nine -- "

Axel chuckled. "Oh yeah, you -- "

"Secondly," I cut him off, as the sound of footsteps came from the direction of the garage. " _Don't_ whistle at girls who are out of your league."

His dark eyes brimmed with mirth, and I watched a slow veil of new comprehension dawn over them, tinging the edges with something like _delight_ \-- like he'd just had a taste of something and found that not only was it delicious; it exceeded expectations. It was not unlike the vibe I had been getting from King fucking Louie in the garage earlier. 

"What'd you bring your bag for? You're not fucking spending the night."

"Er, haven't been home in a few days, to tell the truth."

"Wh -- Jesus, Ax."

On that final note of challenging silence, we arrived at the front door. I looked up to ask the other two why it took five fucking minutes to grab somebody from the garage when I noticed McCormick leaning against the door in his goddamn black-frame glasses.

"You took your contacts out." I accused.

Kenny's dirt-blond eyebrows quirked up over the hard black lines. "My eyes were dry."

Well that's perfectly fucking logical. _What is your_ disease, _Eric,_ I thought, and shook my head. _Whatever_. "Whatever." 

"Are we going out?" Stan said.

"No, Cartman's gonna learn us a lesson about those flowers spit up outside the house."

"Oh," Stan turned to the middle schooler. "And you are?"

Axel held the door open and waved Stan in front of him. "You can call me Axel, Mr. President." The little prat.

"Christ!" Stan swore, hopping down the front steps on my heels. "Is that all people know about me?"

"Well, that, and -- who could forget the great Urinal Deuce of '06?"

" _Shit._ "

"You said it, not me."

I cast a glance at the unmistakable spot of vomit, but didn't need to get any closer to confirm my suspicion. I left the walk and followed a wet ream of grass around to the back of the house. 

"I set the world record for Guitar Hero solo that year too, but nobody cares about that." Stan was bitching.

"That's because Guitar Hero's really gay now, man -- you probably shouldn't talk about that any more."

I fucking knew they would get along. Both Stan and Axel had the privilege of experiencing South Park at its darkest and strangest, and their two very different paths through it all had somehow managed to collide in the same cynical humor. They were already shoving at each other -- waffling somewhere between love and outright abuse as all good friendships do -- as we crested the hill to arrive at the fence to my backyard. I fiddled with the gate and pushed through, leading the way to the treeline.

Kenny brushed against my side. "So where's mum?"

"You never properly fuck off, McCormick. Why is that?"

He ignored me. "Those bills went back to _September_ , dude."

"She's on business in L.A., alright? Leave it alone."

I'd already told Axel to tone it down, but in hindsight shouldn't've bothered -- as usual I was doing a bang-up job of pushing Kenny away without anyone else's help.

If my suspicion was correct -- that somehow I had acquired an emotional tether to Kenny motherfucking McCormick, and now his suicidal impulses were polluting my dreamscapes, then the first thing to do would be harmonize the tether: keep his panic from ebbing over to me. To do that I had to keep everything within the bounds of normalcy. But he seemed to like coming over, now, and there was still so much shit in my life that could freak him out, the same shit that made him run in the first place -- bad deals, bribes, bets. It was only a matter of time before the nosy blond kicked over the wrong rock and found a tangle of my bad decisions wriggling in the dirt. 

It was hard growing up a bully, and even harder growing out of it. Of course it could never be as easy as waking up one day -- finally realizing you're a dick and no one likes you. The realization was forced on me. It started when the gate crashed at P.C., and then mom left for a bit, presumably to take a break from me. I had already known her frozen devotion for what it was, but thrived on an elixir of denial. Then finally, with a kind of detached madness I'd carved painstakingly from solitude, I probed the memories of my mother and my friends -- I carved out the falsehoods, erased the glamour of denial, the illusion of control -- and what was left was the truth I'd always kind of denied but never bet against: I was a dick, and nobody liked me.

And maybe somewhere along the line, during the deconstruction process, I got sick; distanced from the outside world by isolation, I barely ate, slept, or spoke -- it's a sickness that's never really stopped growing on me, digging and digging at the divide between my conscious mind and the creature in the mirror. As it deepened, I found I cared less and less about the goings-on of the physical realm. Salaries, obligations, morality, what was any of it, really, but clutter? And what a relief it had been to purge, to lose somewhere in the void where the sickness is still digging away. Why did Kenny have to _feel_ so much all the time? And why did it seem those emotions were invading my new mental quietude with images of death and dismemberment? It wasn't fair. I -- _maybe I deserve this._ Maybe I deserved to watch my best friend die a thousand times.

 _No,_ I argued. When the shit hit the fan at Middle and they decided to expel me, everyone scattered like roaches -- but Kenny was one of the ones I remembered most. The coal of resentment simmering in my gut stirred into a full broil. Only when pushed to the limits did people reveal their true nature. What did that make him? _The runner._ Why should I try to save him now? He left before and would likely leave again. 

Kenny stumbled against my side as we pressed on through the wet grass, closing in on the tree line. _Well,_ I amended. _He mostly left._ The McCormick who returned was not _quite_ the one who left, after all. The Kenny McCormick I remembered wasn't the one I found crouched in the parking lot, but neither was he the one leading retards through fucking _bear country_ for a little extra cash. I was starting to accept that I might not be the only one facing off against change. Knowing how to play the game was one thing, but now I didn't even recognize the gamepieces. To tell the truth I was still having a hard time even getting a read on why Kenny wanted to worm his way back into my life at all -- and hadn't it started around the same time as the dreams?

"Alright, idiots, let me introduce you to one of the most common plants in Colorado," I said, coming to a stop just before the treeline, at a spot just visible from my bedroom window, a spot marked by freshly turned dirt.

"Fireweed," Kenny said. 

"Not bad, McCormick. Today won't be a total loss."

"It grows all over the place on Murphy's land, especially this time of year, during the brush fires -- "

"Can we all agree that is not an omen on my doorstep, then? Just a dumb cat who ate a plant endemic to South Park and then puked it up? Mystery solved?"

"I mean, you gotta admit, man, it's still pretty fuckin' _bizarre_." Stan elbowed Axel and they cackled like a pair of crows. 

Eventually their laughter died out. I made a plan to turn my eyes away from the tiny graveplot, but never put it into motion. Several long stalks of fireweed sprung from the upturned earth. They bloomed in hanging columns of tiny flowers, their coloring so delicate it was almost translucent in the dimming evening light. 

"I told her she was a good cat, before she went."

"How did she go?" Stan asked.

"Not the way I thought she would." I said.

There's a special kind of hush in the in-between spaces, when in the presence of the dead. Once I saw a photograph Kenny's dad had taken of him and a buck they shot out in the brush one season. He said he'd never do it again, that it was like 'posing with a blood puppet.'

I remembered the first time the four of us went night-creeping in one of Park County's many grave lots. As part of the old western frontier, Colorado shared some history with American 'manifest destiny:' civilization had to been beaten out of earth by hand, by plow, by rail, and the cemeteries still had the pitiable fate of the first settlers hung about them -- all had a hasty, almost ambiguous quality to the deeper, older parts. I don't know what I expected to find, but I remember watching my brand new trainers sink an inch or so into the spongey earth, and thinking what a pity it was, that man's fate was to shape the earth in any way he could, only to have it swallow him whole, in the end. Some of the remains beneath my feet would be centuries old, some only a few months. All resting under six feet of the same spongey earth. 

"We're all so washed out with euphemisms, about death. 'Put her down,' they say. At the vet, they told me it was the best thing for her, the ethical thing. 'Put her to sleep,' they said. She was old, you know? Kitty. She had all kinds of shit happenin' with her kidneys, a few damning test results, deaf towards the end and damn-near blind in one eye -- the works.

"I watched the injection. They said the drug would be moving around in her system even after she died, that it would force a bunch of air out. So I'm in this cozy dying chamber at the animal hospital, and I'm watching this cat, my shadow for _fifteen effin' years_ , I'm watching her dead body shake as these huge fart noises start coming from her mouth. I'm serious -- the sound of ripping absolute ass -- and you know what?

"I laughed. I fuckin' laughed my ass off in that little room. It was horrible. It was like reading Kafka -- like I'm on the outside looking in, thinking what a douche this guy is."

Grief isn't a reservoir, it's a fountain. And every time you dip into it -- willingly or not -- more wells up from the earth to take its place.

I felt differently about death, now. Now that Kitty was gone, almost fifteen years of my secret childhood history had gone with her -- she had been a store of memory I'd taken advantage of for as long as I could remember -- how many nights had I sat with her and held a flashlight under a blanket tent, making plans of revenge and retribution? How many hours had we spent ignoring mom lying in bed on Saturday mornings, how many small moments spent blinking into each other's eyes? -- I knew my own memory to be a flawed, conceited thing. Kitty might as well be another lie I made up to prove to myself I could be loved.

And now the last and clearest memory I had of her was the image of her body quaking under waves of fart sounds. That's all death was to Western society, wasn't it? One big fart joke that's just as unethical and undignified as we say it isn't. Death is comedic dialogue, comic cross-talk between the living and the dying. We laugh because something's awkward, or just not quite right, but we forget that it's all carefully scripted -- and without the participation of both parties, it wouldn't exist.

Kenny's hand was warm under the hood of Teddy's sweater. Five points of pressure drew spirographs between my shoulder blades.

His eyes were kind of gray behind the lenses. I caught myself wondering when it would be just us again -- if it ever would be.

"That's grim, man." Axel offered. Stan grunted his agreement.

 _That's not the point._ I shrugged off Kenny's touch. "Let's go."

"It's fireweed, alright?" I called back. "Remember that."

 


	8. Chapter 8

### The Star

The hockey team was a pile of thunderheads congregating in the living room. As the four of them trickled through the door, Cartman was set upon by a massive shifting form from the living room: the big ginger goalkeeper, and the escort of players attempting to keep him on his feet. 

"Eric!" Teddy boomed, boffing a hand at Cartman's shoulder and instead catching him on the ear. "Next time -- next time, you take _me_ out to the back, okay? I wish to... pay my respects to -- to the late... ?"

"Mr. Kitty." Kenny said, taking pity on the slurring senior.

"Right! To Mr. Kitty. My respects to him."

"I told you guys not to go in the fucking kitchen," Eric said, low and dangerous. 

"Wha -- ? Nobody went in the kitchen! Honest!"

There were several objections to the accusation. Kenny crept close, edging into his friend's side to better witness the encounter like a scavenger waiting for scraps. The logo on Cartman's chest read _flammable material_ , and Kenny smiled -- how true that was.

"I know you did -- its the only window on the first floor that faces the backyard, jackass. Will somebody please tell me why I bother with co-captains when a couple of deaf _pigeons_ could take direction better?"

Nobody accepted the challenge. The elder Larson brother tried to shrink away from Cartman's glaring red eyes, but he was stuck in Teddy's armpit.

"Anyway, captain," The goalkeeper sighed. "We're on our way out, but I can't find my keys."

Cartman produced a set of car keys from the pocket of his sweatshirt. He tossed them to the girl standing behind the goalkeeper. 

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, actually." He produced a plate of pizza, pushed it into his captain's hands. "Eat, dammit."

Cartman's eyes narrowed to laser-intensity. "Don't mother me."

" _Someone's_ got to."

Eric was forced to accept the plate, but he never broke eye contact with the senior. "You'll be at practice Monday, you'll remember this -- and you will regret it."

The team groaned collectively. Kenny rocked back on his heels, enjoying the ice hockey captain's show of authority -- of course he would be the world-weary, hard-ass kind of captain. After bidding the team farewell -- "Get your shit, get out of my house, and don't be late tomorrow" -- Eric pushed through the mob and headed for the stairs, Axel hot on his tail. Kenny hardly spared a backward glance for the thunderclouds beginning to push, pile, and roll out the doorway -- anticipation filled him to the lungs, and he fairly stumbled up the stairs. It felt like ages since he'd been up to Cartman's room.

"Wanna see what I found at the gorge the other night?"

"Unh?" Axel said. "It's not another deer skull is it?"

Cartman paused on the steps. "No. But that was cool, what was wrong with that?"

"Nothin'! The skull was cool, I just didn't need the exposé on how wolves' tongues can lick the skin right off your face. And the rotted brains -- I just -- I didn't sleep a few nights."

Cartman snorted his cruel pleasure, hit the landing and disappeared into an open doorway. "Don't be such a pussy."

"You buried that thing, right? I'm not gonna go in there and see its poor dumb eye sockets again, am I?"

"What are we looking at?" Stan asked, a few steps behind Kenny. Always a few steps behind, it seemed.

"Worm." Kenny said. "Put your phone away, dude. If Cartman sees he'll throw it out the window, I promise."

"He might care if _you're_ ignoring him, but I think I'm safe."

 _I think your facts are outdated,_ Kenny thought, slipping into Eric's bedroom behind Axel.

Cartman's room was a time capsule built like an onion -- the hockey captain's more recent interests were literally taped over the old ones in layers; new, just slightly wrinkled band posters and playbills covered older, torn flyers; the wall opposite the window was covered in rows of past years' Halloween masks, all gaping mouths and holes for eyes, some bought and some obviously made; and everywhere _everywhere_ were miscellaneous trinkets of the past, left on the floor to collect like layers of fossilizing earth waiting for some flood or ice berg to pass through and rip open all those years again. Some things couldn't be buried, Kenny noticed; underneath some dark playbills he glimpsed a Terrance and Phillip poster; in the far upper corner of the mask wall was a familiar set of leering raccoon eyes; among the mess of blankets on the bed a few twists of dark green suggested the presence of Clyde frog. The few familiarities were comforting, even though Kenny was using them to avoid addressing the box -- the utterly out-of-place cardboard box resting on the floor beside Cartman's desk.

"Check it out," He was saying, dropping to a crouch in front of the box as Axel lagged hesitantly behind. 

Kenny circled over, dodging fluttering stacks of paper -- music sheets, it looked like -- and such 21st century clutter as old water pistols, playing cards, plastic street hockey balls. A discarded piece of hockey tape patterned with red Canadian maple leaves caught and stuck fast to his boot. 

The tag was flipped up at the back of Eric's neck. 'TED Wallis,' it read, in upside-down Sharpie letters. The sweatshirt wrinkled over the curve of his back, bunched at the elbows where he reached into the box. Cartman would always be a big guy, but now Kenny recalled when he had been approximately the size of Teddy: pushing six feet and shoulders brushing door frames. But seeing the goalkeeper's sweatshirt hung on his frame Kenny realized Cartman was just a stack of bones under the inherited weight of his ancestors.

He settled down on his heels slightly behind the hockey captain, resisted the urge to run a hand down his spine, checking for bumps. The last thing he wanted was to see what had become of the gray thing from the gorge. 

"Oh, _shit_ that thing is fuckin' gnarly-lookin' -- !" Axel's lisping eloquence was reduced to disbelieving curse-words as Cartman pulled the thing from the box.

Worm squirmed around the hand, its wrinkles bunching and pulling, bunching. In the dark evening shadows it seemed still gray, but Kenny took note of a few changes. It very clearly had four limbs now, although the texture of the kitten still screamed _worm_ , and its eyes bulged like two pale moons peeking out of swollen pink horizons. 

"Well that's fucking disgusting," Stan murmured -- the light from his phone screen caught the edges of his dark eyebrows and turned his rainy gray eyes silver. "What kinda cat you think it is?"

"Not a cat," Cartman chewed. "Worm."

"How old is it, d'you know? I don't know a damn thing about cats." Axel said.

"Weeks," Kenny answered in the following silence. "Maybe a month."

"Look -- " Cartman said, brandishing the squirming animal like a man selling rare jewelry. 

He pushed a thumb under the tiny lip and Kenny saw the pointed peak of a tinier tooth -- so white it was almost translucent -- pushing out of the gums under Worm's upper lip. 

Axel chuckled nervously. "Any, uh, any new puncture wounds, bro? I think you're raising a cat vampire."

"One more thing," Cartman said, his voice pitched low as if to complement the shadows gathered around the box. He picked at its tiny forelimb with his other hand. It started making _choo_ -ing noises in addition to the wriggling. "Thumbs. This little bugger's got _thumbs_."

Three heads loomed closer -- even Kenny, who'd never heard of such a thing and anxiously hoped it wasn't true. But where Eric's hand pressed against the small pink paw a _sixth_ protrusion was evident; it made the creature's "hand" appear as big as its head minus the flopping flesh bat ears.

"Yeah yeah, it's called a dewclaw, man," Stan said, leaning away after a glance. "My old dog had 'em too."

Suddenly Worm's _choo_ -ing sharpened to a piercing mewl. "Alright, shut up," Cartman grunted. "I saved your life and I can do whatever the fuck I want with you." Nevertheless, he lowered his hands slowly back into the box and allowed it to burrow back into folds of towel.

"You know what? I think it'll be a handsome cat." Axel said, straightening up and stretching out his back with a mewl like Worm's. "Yeah, I looked just like that after a couple weeks outside the womb: all wrinkly and half-blind. You know, I was worried about you, man, being here all by yourself, but I think this thing will be good for you. Sure, it ain't Kitty -- I'm not even sure if it's the same kind o' critter, but -- it's somebody to talk to, right?"

 _This kid says the_ weirdest _shit sometimes_ , Kenny thought. He risked another touch -- a hand on the soft fabric over Cartman's shoulder -- before he stood and moved away from the box.

"What are you listening to?" Axel continued, streaming across the room to where Eric's speaker system sat on the windowsill. "Probably trash."

"Probably." Cartman said, moving to take a seat at his cluttered desk.

The room was poorly lit, and several degrees cooler than the rest of the house, Kenny noticed. Probably because the window was cracked. As he stood, a brisk fall breeze entered through the crack, stirring the paper on the floor into a gentle fluttering applause. He skirted around lava flows of sheet music, clothing, and the menagerie of junk to where an electric keyboard stood in the far corner. He flicked around but didn't recognize any of the stuff Eric was learning. 

"Here. This is for you." 

"...You sure?"

Upon reading the signs of displeasure on his friend's face, he quickly accepted the plate. Kenny was never one to refuse free food, anyway. He settled in to devour the pizza as Cartman turned back to his desk. Axel fiddled with the stereo system. Stan danced around a mound of tangled blankets and collapsed at the foot of the bed. 

"Give you J. Cole's new album," the middle schooler was a nonstop narrator. "Smarten you all up."

Cartman hunched over his desk, his hands working at some task. Kenny couldn't look away from his shoulders. The speakers sparked, sputtered, and finally yielded to Axel's ministrations. The murmur of drums washed over the room like rainfall.

"This is a tribal drum beat." Cartman grouched, without looking up.

A minute later. "This is jazz syncopation. I told you no more of this black power shit, Axel. You can't change me."

Axel adjusted his hat and moved his arms in vague gestures, but couldn't seem to express his frustration properly. "Why you gotta read so far into it? Stop being smart for one second and just _listen_ , man, listen to the music. I _know_ you know how."

He left the speakers and the window and moved to lean against the desk.

"Anyway, check it out," With one of his strangely graceful marionette movements, Axel flicked out a hand and a small package the size of a pack of cigarettes landed on Cartman's desk. "Fresh blueberries."

"Terrific," Eric said. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and stood, looking relieved. "Come here and roll it for me."

"Really?" Axel's whole expression lit up like Christmas come early.

"Yeah, remember I showed you the inverse roll? Do that. I hate the taste of so much paper."

"Ok, boss." Axel accepted the chair and took to the task in earnest. The curl of his back over the desk and the familiar surroundings reminded Kenny of Cartman. He was realizing that their companionship had grown from some kind of strange apprenticeship. Did they meet through the Middle School trafficking operation? Kenny wondered. Then, with some dread: _did they meet through Rainer?_

He was nevertheless strangely glad Axel was there. Where the relationship between the three of them -- Cartman, Stan, himself -- was strained at best, Axel was a social liquid; just like the night at the block party in North Park, when the middle schooler made effortless small-talk with him over a dusty CD collection and a lava lamp, Axel flowed between the three of them in a loose way that kept everyone more-or-less engaged. He was pleased to note that even Stan had put his phone away and began telling the 14-year-old about an incident last weekend involving Clyde Donovan and the older sister of the kid he babysat.

"So she says, 'I think I'm in the mood,' she says. Right there in the bathroom."

"Serious?" Axel asked from the desk, incredulous. "Just like that? What did he do?"

"He left -- he told me he thought maybe she was too big for him." Stan lifted an arm from where he laid on the bed, flapped it around in a vague gesture.

"I think it could've worked out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! You know what it's like, being with a bigger woman?"

"Nah," Stan intoned. "I've been on and off with the same girl since third grade. What's it like?"

"I don't know either." Axel paused. "Eric!"

Cartman had spaced out in front of his wall of masks. He was quite obviously doing nothing, but still didn't seem inclined to join the conversation. Kenny wondered what was on his mind.

"You still goin' with Lotus?" The middle schooler continued, hardly bothering to look up from his task.

Kenny choked on his last crust of pizza. Stan sat up on the bed, wiggling a finger in his ear. 

"Can you ask her what it's like, being with a bigger woman?" Axel ploughed on. 

This jerked Cartman out of his stupor.

"You're goin' with _Lotus_?" Stan began a barrage of questions at the same time Kenny lost his shit and began laughing like a damn hyena. 

Cartman couldn't seem to decide who to glare at, or whose reaction to address first -- it would almost be funny if the situation weren't so dangerous, but Kenny couldn't help himself. He could spend a lifetime watching the 14-year-old badgering Cartman; nobody seemed to quite have the balls to push him any more, and yet here was Axel, toeing the line. 

"Why d'you do this to me, Ax?" He finally said, glaring at the whole room.

"How's I supposed to know it was a _secret_?" Axel lisped.

"You're goin' with _Lotus_?" Stan was a skipping record. Kenny's quieted giggles picked up again into raucous laughter. Cartman turned in his direction and flung a hacky sack across the room with deadly accuracy -- it struck Kenny in the chest just below the throat. He coughed and laughed on. "Shut _up_ , McCormick." He hissed.

"Wait, wait, wait," Stan said. "We are talking about _Lotus_ \-- former Raisins girl Lotus -- right?"

He turned to Axel, pleading. The middle schooler raised his crooked marionette shoulders to his ears and nodded enthusiastically. Stan looked back at Cartman: "Well -- _Nice,_ man, she's a total babe. How did you -- ?"

As Stan trailed off, Axel huffed a quick laugh. "Yeah well, uh -- let's just say she don't like him for his personality."

"Alright, fuck off, Axel!" Cartman barked, then: " _Shut up McCormick -- !_ "

Kenny couldn't help it -- even when his best friend flew across the room and wrestled Kenny into his least favorite headlock, the one with the sharp pressure between his shoulder blades and Cartman's hot angry breath in his ear -- even under these circumstances Kenny laughed at the thought of him and Lotus having sexual liaisons. It was just too out of the box -- Cartman's only cares in the world for almost 17 years had been wealth, power, and food (off-the-record, of the four of them he was voted least likely to get laid, not only for his personal qualities, but also his pure lack of interest -- when Kenny was getting head in parking lots Cartman was still bitching at Craig Tucker over Halo 3). The math didn't add up.

"Ow, ow, ow -- okay, I don't like that," The pain in his back revived some of Kenny's senses. "I'm sorry, you're right -- _she's a babe!_ "

"For your _information_ ," Eric said, emphasizing every other word with a punishing addition of weight that made Kenny whimper and squirm. "You gossiping fucking _magpies_ \-- we aren't _goin'_ together. Not anymore, anyway -- we stopped arguing so much, and it got boring. Just, sometimes I'll call. And she'll come over."

"I know -- _Lotus!_ " Axel cawed appreciatively. "Damn, dude! I remember before they shut down Raisins -- I'd go around there just to order a coke and watch those girls. Lotus and -- what was her friend's name? -- that's right, Ferrari. Boy, they were the ones to watch! Managed the damn place, I think."

"I think you're hurting him, man," Stan laughed nervously. 

Kenny was reduced to huffing gasps of _stop_ in Eric's ruthless hold. At the sound of Stan's concern the pressure lessened by a few blessed degrees. "What're you gonna do," He said into his ear. "When I let go of you?"

Kenny spent the next few seconds controlling his inhales and wondering how to appease his captor. "I don't know the right answer to your question, but I know the wrong one -- _Eeurgh!_ "

After a sharp wrench to that bundle of nerves between his shoulder blades, all the pressure was gone and Kenny stood motionless as his body decided how best to recover. The ghost of a laughing breath on his ear drum. "Pick up your glasses."

Kenny picked up his glasses. 

"What d'you think?" Axel said, brandishing his finished product. Long as a finger, shaped like a baseball bat. "It's a little bendy in the middle, but -- I tried."

Cartman cast a cursory glance at the joint. "It'll do."

The sun could've risen inside the bedroom and not cast a happier glow on Axel's face.

"I'm not smoking, guys." Stan said, laying back down.

"What?" Axel said, crest-fallen.

"They're not piss-testing the football team, are they?" Cartman asked.

"New policy. Starting next week," Stan replied grimly.

"Those _Nazis,_ " Axel grouched. "You're the class president, ain't'cha? _Do_ something about it!"

"Everyone seems to be consistently overestimating the power of a class popularity vote. I can't even change the lunch menu, dude."

"Whatever," Cartman said. "Axel, go start the shower. We'll just have to hot-box."

"No, you don't understand," Stan said. "I _can't_ get high. They'll know."

"Look, even if they actually find out, you can tell them _honestly_ that you didn't smoke. Besides, those tests are still bullshit, especially in high school. I took a piss test blazed out of my mind last summer and still passed."

Axel chuckled. "Probably 'cause Lou doesn't give a shit and wouldn't fire his best employee."

"Didn't I tell you to start the shower?" He fired back.

"I'm on it, I'm on it," Axel said, gathering up the speakers from the windowsill. He juggled the items in his narrow arms and then shuffled over to the piano bench. "I'll take McCormick. Bring the towel under your ass, please?"

Kenny took his eyes off Cartman. The middle schooler's politeness made him smile -- crooked and surprised. "You can call me Kenny, you know."

"Really?" Axel said. "This is awesome. Gosh, you're attractive up close, too -- "

" _Ax!_ "

Kenny nearly jumped out of his skin. Cartman's bark was fucking terrifying. It might've even been more terrifying than his bite, but then Kenny remembered a few of his bites. Axel apologized and said something about being a poet at heart. 

After issuing the reprimand, the hockey captain set about pulling his sweatshirt over his head, then paused with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his sweats. "Uh," He said, glancing around as if suddenly realizing he wasn't in a locker room. "I'm taking off my pants."

"If you think I'm sticking around to eye up your hairy ass -- " 

"Then get _out!_ " Eric challenged. "Start the fuckin' shower."

Kenny had never been shoved around by a middle schooler before, but he supposed if it had to be anyone it might as well be Axel. He remembered to grab the towel on the way out.

"What's so funny?" He asked the kid, following him into the bathroom across the hall. 

"Nothin'. Glad you guys are here, is all. He needs it. Eric."

Kenny sat on the toilet cover, twisting the towel in his hands restlessly. He watched Axel arrange the speakers on either side of the sink bowl, then lay the auxiliary wire carefully on the back of the toilet. It was hard to tell, from Axel's natural jerkiness, but he suspected these were rote actions, built from routine. How many times had they hot-boxed in here together? Kenny wondered. He'd never smoked weed in the house; it had seemed off-limits, Cartman's sanctum. "I dunno. You're really good with him -- I just, I mean, I just got my ass kicked."

Hot water sprang from the showerhead. Axel tucked in the curtain and sat on the rim of the tub. "That wasn't an ass-kicking, that was pure love. He misses you, man." He connected the wire to his phone and soon the music was humming again and this time the rainfall of drumbeats was accompanied by the rush of the shower. Hot clouds of steam began building on the ceiling.

"Pure love feels like it's starting to bruise."

Axel tipped his head back and laughed as if he'd made a joke, but Kenny got the feeling the punch-line in Axel's head was totally different. "Kenny -- you're too quiet. I didn't get it before, but I kind of do now." _Get what?_

The door cracked -- a thread of cool air lanced into the bathroom, splitting the waves of humidity for a few seconds -- and Stan slid in, holding a gallon of water and a severely pinched expression on his face. He balanced the bottle on the sink and hobbled over to take a seat beside Axel. "I kind of wanted to stick around just to see what Lotus was after -- but I think he guessed my plan."

"Holy shit, Stanley -- " Axel huffed. "Yer fearless."

"Hey -- " Stan reasoned, looking smug despite the pain he seemed to be in. "Man's gotta know what his brother's packing. It's a trust thing."

Kenny recalled the walk that morning, Stan telling him Cartman made him nervous. Had it really only been hours ago? _It's still Cartman,_ Stan's eyes seemed to say. _It's still just Cartman._ Why couldn't Kenny get over his discomfort so easily? 

"Did receive a pretty good punch in the nuts -- and some choice words -- for it, though."

Axel laughed, and if he was already this talkative, happy and giggly sober, Kenny couldn't imagine him high. It seemed against the odds -- Kenny might not've been excellent at reading emotions, but he was observant, and in Axel he saw the unmistakable signs of a homeless youth -- it was like looking into a mirror from the past: the discoloring under his eyes, backpack armed to the teeth, the duct tape sheaths over the toes of his shoes, even the dirt under his fingernails -- they were all Kenny's, once. How could Axel still be so cheerful? Kenny remembered finding life so dark -- only after growing out of his crime-fighting alter-ego Mysterion and leaving home for a while had Kenny found some purpose in the responsibility for his little sister. Eventually, he went back home for her. But what of Axel? Instead of sweating in the fields under the rising sun for a few seasons, Axel had been sucked into the underground. It didn't seem fair. It felt like fate twisted around on itself, some wrinkle in the fabric of space-time that had Kenny bumping heads with his past self -- under uncontrollable pressures and making a whole different set of choices. Kenny was seized by a rush of respect for the young drug dealer, and, he thought, a bit of new respect for himself, and for what he'd gone through. 

"What'you smiling at, McCormick?" Cartman's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You smile -- you laugh at me -- but you don't say dick. What's there to smile at, anyway? Everything sucks." 

While Kenny had zoned out of Stan and Axel's conversation, the environment had been modified again; the towel was stuck in the crack of the door, the desk chair propped against it, and Eric Cartman was less then a few feet away with a joint long as a finger hanging from his chapped lips. 

"Says the guy who laughed at the ethical killing of his cat." 

Behind him, Axel's conversation came to an abrupt halt. Kenny tracked the glare of red in Cartman's brown eyes. "Too soon, man," Stan muttered.

But his mouth was splitting to the side in a caricature of a smile as Eric paused to take the unlit joint from his mouth. "That -- is exactly the point. Death's pretty fuckin' absurd, isn't it? There's hope for you yet."

Cartman barked an order to Axel to change the music -- " _Smokin'_ music, something with _Snoop,_ for god's sake," -- and then leaned back in his chair to examine the joint. The bathroom was hot and cramped -- just the way Kenny remembered every single fucking bathroom hot-box ever. He hated bathroom hot-boxes, no matter how effective everyone claimed they were. To Kenny it meant forty-five minutes of pure hell: ass-to-ass, cheek-to-cheek with half-strangers in some giggling idiot's bathroom -- coughing, hacking, and inevitably sweating bullets while the mind tries desperately to fly but gets caught by the leg hairs in their idiot conversations -- 

"Where was your first hot-box?"

"Craig Tucker's piss-covered bathroom with a bunch of retarded freshmen." Kenny said automatically. "Fuck me if I ever smoke with those fuckin' _mid-_ town _honkies_ ever again." It was the logical conclusion to his train of thought; promising himself that under no circumstances would he get high with Craig ever again. It felt so terrific leaving the bathroom after that ordeal that Kenny had left the house without looking back. 

"You drop a solid f-bomb, you know," Axel chuckled. "You should do it more often."

"Hey, that wasn't so bad. Those were our classmates, dude, you _knew_ them all," Stan said.

Kenny had forgot Stan had been there. "I forgot you were there."

Cartman had a kind of silent, huffing joy that preceded full-keel laughter. "Oh shit, _Marsh_ was there, too -- " _huff_ "Sounds horrorshow, dude -- "

" _What?_ " Stan complained. "Why does that sound so bad? Okay -- there were a few too many nobodies, but -- "

Kenny watched Cartman's silent laughter -- it was just like him, to take such pleasure in hearing of his suffering -- his teeth were bared but not all-the-way smiling. Straight teeth, Kenny noted glumly. It would've been so perfect, so destined, if Cartman had been cursed with crooked teeth -- but when the time came and everything grew in, he'd had nothing but a cross-bite that took two months of a special retainer to correct. And on top of it all -- Kenny had thought the silver retainer looked really bad-ass.

Cartman sobered suddenly, and met Kenny's stare with half-lidded eyes: "We're different, you and I."

Before anyone could respond, least of all Kenny, Cartman called the challenge: "Lighter."

Kenny's was out before Stan could get a hand in his jeans, and Axel's clanged off the door behind Cartman's head. Kenny released the breath he'd been holding. He hadn't done a lighter-draw in _months_ , but he had the advantage of being closest to the challenger and handiest when it came to setting fire to things.

Cartman accepted his lighter. "Axel, you are today's bad homie." Cartman said. "Speed is _important_ , but aim is _more_ important. If you fucking _bean_ me with it, you'll be bad homie for the rest of the year, got me?"

Bad homie was last in the pass.

"Is this a zippo?" Cartman accused. Kenny raised an eyebrow. "I don't know whether to rip on you for being a hipster or just legit trailer trash. Mostly I'm just surprised you made the investment. These things are like 13 bucks."

Kenny tilted his jaw at the challenge. "That one was forty, and it's already worth it -- I've had it for a year, and Craig drops like two bucks a week on his little Bic fart sprays."

"Dude," Axel said. "Fart spray is way more gnarly than Bic lighters. Have you ever smelled fart spray?"

"No. I know a guy who sells it in cans outside the Halloween store. What's it smell like?"

"I don't know either." He paused. "But Eric -- hey!"

Stan cut Axel off with a shove that almost sent him into the tub. "Whatchu _shove_ me for -- "

"You're such a fuck, dude -- " Stan accused. "You just did the same shit as before. 'You know what it's like being with a bigger woman?' you asked me. Remember that? But you didn't know shit, and you fuck with Cartman, and then we all get in trouble. Remember that?"

"Well, if it isn't _Déjà vu Boy_ , Captain Hindsight's new bonk!"

The middle schooler's bony elbow nearly knocked the glasses off his head as Stan went for the headlock and the two began to wrestle. Kenny tried to shift out of reach on the toilet seat but bumped knees with Cartman, who had changed into gym shorts for the hot-box session. A smart decision -- jeans were murder in a hot-box. His gaze jumped up to his face as he realized Cartman was looking at him. 

He flicked Kenny's zippo. "Here's to our first hot-box outside a moving vehicle."

The fire licked along the flap of paper hanging off the joint; the advantage of an inverse roll was instead of burning two layers of rolled paper, the adhesive was reversed, allowing the excess paper to be removed. If you were careful about how you closed it, the paper burned up along the spine and even lit the joint without harming its overall integrity. The flame flicked, flared, glowed in Eric's eyes, and then he put the filter to his lips: it was a go.

"Perfect, Ax," He breathed. Smoke swirled into the room and the atmosphere immediately felt denser. 

Cartman's knee bumped his again when he passed it off to him. Inevitable. It was still spacious, considering the conditions of his last hot-box. By the time Axel was passing back to Cartman, the air was properly swimming and the steam made a blank slate of the mirror over the sink. Kenny pulled off his hood pushed his glasses up his nose. The more moist the air became, the more often he had to adjust them.

As Cartman leaned forward to accept the joint from Axel, Kenny's gaze caught on him and stuck. That shirt -- a Budgie T-shirt he hadn't worn since the eighth fucking grade, when they each had a heavy metal phase -- it pulled around his biceps but hung a little sharply from the shoulders. As Cartman leaned back and took his hit, Kenny watched his chest swell through the fog, a sharp collar bone rising over two pectoral mounds, and then nothing. The more he thought about Lotus the more he realized not only had Cartman's teeth grown in straight but fate took another laughing turn and made him _good-looking,_ as well. Some of it had to do with his nature, of course -- even as an almost morbidly obese child, Cartman was always with them, always willing to stop at nothing to accomplish his own ends -- and from this constant activity Cartman developed a body-awareness that made him not the awkward bumbling fat kid but the athletic fat kid that it was better to avoid at all costs. And then somewhere along the line, the fat kid became this big kinda-hot dude and Kenny was _so fucking screwed._ Of course it had to be Lotus, he thought. She wasn't just a babe she was a _powerful_ babe and Cartman was attracted to power above all. Kenny, by contrast, hadn't felt powerful in a long time. He felt more like a tortoise, turned on its shell.

"Are my eyes swimming, or are your arms covered in zebra stripes?"

"Are you seriously that high?" Cartman muttered around his second hit.

"Those're scars."

Stan perked up from his phone screen. "Hey man, if you, uh, you got anything you wanna talk about, you can always trust us. Though I gotta admit I'm a little vexed -- considering you spent all of seventh grade bullying Red for having cuts on her wrists."

"Shut up, Marsh, I'm not fucking cutting or anything, Jesus _Christ_. And you know what -- " He moved to pass off to Kenny, but the way he held the joint made it almost impossible to take without getting burned, so Kenny was forced to use both hands like a go at a fucking Rubix Cube. 

Cartman paid no attention to Kenny's struggle. "I only said that shit because the hardest thing that bitch has ever gone through is her own fucking purse."

Axel chuckled. "Did you say that first, or did Eminem?"

Instead of bitching, grouching, or grunting, Cartman acknowledged Axel's comment with a small jerk of his head and a wink, as if they shared some secret. It was devastating. "Anyway, did you even see those dotted lines she was showing off? That's not self-harm, that's an ad in the paper for an attention whore."

"Oh, so you think that's license for you to slam a pack of razors on her desk and tell her to _nut-up_ in front of the class?" Stan said. "You don't know what she's been through, man, you couldn't -- "

"Did she take the blades?"

Stan stuttered. "What?"

" _You've_ got the special memory powers, so I'm asking you," Cartman said slowly. " _Did she take the effing razors?_ "

Stan held Cartman's stare across the cloud of smoke for a few seconds, or maybe a few very high minutes, Kenny didn't know. Then Stan pulled off his hat, heaved a sigh, and intercepted Kenny's pass to Axel. "She didn't take them, alright? But your methods are crude, and dangerous."

"Nice interception." Kenny complimented.

"You wanna blow-back?" Stan grinned. 

Kenny stood up, clutched his jeans with one hand as Stan stood to face him in the cramped space. Black hair in an uproar of humidity and skin flushed from the heat, Stan brought the filter to his lips with calloused fingertips and inhaled deeply. When he was ready, Stan nodded at him, dipped his head, and exhaled as Kenny shuffled forward to take the outflow of smoke, remembering belatedly just how close you have to be to someone to do a proper blow-back. Kenny collapsed back on the toilet seat -- a moment passed of breathless silence -- then he blew the recycled smoke out of his nose.

"Nice -- " Axel said. "That was probably the hottest blow-back I've ever seen."

Kenny was high enough to think it was just a nice thing to say. "Fuckin' hell, Ax."

Stan punched him in the shoulder, and finally passed off the joint. "Anyway, I know Red's been through some shit, too -- "

"Like _what_." Cartman couldn't back down.

Stan frowned for a moment, then: "Well, like I heard last year she got a concussion because someone _threw_ something at the back of her head in anatomy -- "

"No, no -- that was me, okay?" Kenny shrugged out of his sweatshirt, hung it around his neck, waved his hand dismissively. "She was being a Catholic cunt about the dick pics in our textbook, and -- "

"So it was _you_?! What did you throw, man? They said she fell out of her chair and passed out, but all they could find was -- "

"A gummy bear."

Cartman laughed so hard it made Kenny start too, and then Axel was cackling again. 

"Granted, it was one of the hard, stale gummy bears from the bottom of my bag -- " Kenny said. "But the bitch fell before she knew what hit her."

"I had to take her to the lab and run the football concussion test!" Stan said. 

"'Don't mess with Stan Marsh,'" Cartman said in a high mocking tone. "'He got the ban on flip-combs lifted.' Ha-Ha. You ain't shit."

"Hey! You're the one who got that ban installed in the first place, fat-ass!"

The air turned sour in a heartbeat. "I've told you before, Stanley -- I didn't do a _damn_ thing to that kid; he lied, and you all fucking ate it up -- "

"Jeez, Cartman, sorry if its hard to take you on your word after all these years playing your games -- "

"You're not _part_ of my games anymore," Cartman grit out.

"No, they're just not limited to me."

"Hey, you guys wanna hear a story? It's about the first time I met this guy, and it starts at this shady -- "

" _No,_ Axel."

Axel froze mid-gesture. " -- I just wanna tell them how cool you are, man."

Eric dragged a hand over his face. "They _grew up_ with me -- "

"I know -- I think that's the problem." 

The following staring contest was uncomfortably long, in Kenny's opinion. It could've been seconds, though. He suddenly remembered the joint fizzling in his hands and passed it off to Stan. 

"Wait," Stan said. "I want to hear the rest of the story."

Axel took a deep breath but Cartman's disapproval was so thick in the air the teen hesitated. "I was only jus' gonna tell them how we met. Remember? Working at Mr. Liu's."

Whatever Eric did, or said -- if it was anything at all -- Kenny missed. It could've been a wave of the hand, a jerk of the head, maybe just the lifting of that intangible screen of negative energy. Whatever happened, the screen shattered -- Kenny choked on a fragment -- and gathered into a decimal point between the hockey captain's eyebrows. Kenny had the bizarre thought that, if any of the bullshit was true, Cartman would have a massive aura. It would be black. 

Kenny shook around the soggy-bottom slush in his skull -- _I'm high,_ he remembered.

" -- So all I know is I'm here to wash tables for this Chinese guy at his diner for shit-over five bucks an hour, right? The first thing I notice is the fucking wolf chained up outside the front door."

"Wait, I know that dog," Stan said. "That's a fucking sled dog, dude -- there's not a drop of wolf-blood in him."

"Whatever, do I have a dog? No. Do I look like I'm from somewhere that snows a lot? No, where I come from, dogs mean rich people come to take your things." Stan folded his hands over his knee, looking cowed before Axel's assertion of status as a minority.

"Anyway, I'm thirteen and I need some cash to pad the mattress. My boss is this forty-some-odd Asian dude -- I honestly get lost between the 20s and 50s with Asian people -- and the first thing he tells me is that things will be easier from now on if I just pretend not to speak English.

"'I have no wife,' he says to me. 'So! I have no children. Liu, you ask, what is the meaning? The meaning is -- '" Axel took a deep breath. "' _No - free - labor!_ How can one man, with many debt, keep his business? I have no wife. I have no children. Only have the dog -- and you.'"

Kenny hadn't seen Cartman laugh so much since they were kids. 

"That's definitely something he'd say -- but your _lisp_ , man," he huffed. "You really, really can't do a Lou impression."

"Oh, whatever -- fuck you! And fuck him!" Axel cursed, waving off Cartman. "Fuckin' boss Lou... he never had a stable staff, always new junkies passing through in cycles of a couple months. Some of the other kids he tried barely lasted _days_."

"What was wrong?" Stan inquired. "He was a shitty boss?"

" _No,_ I mean, _he_ was alright, just the people he found were exactly the kind of people who couldn't cut it. Chain-smoking sons of blue-collar workers, never-worked-a-day-in-my-life-and-still-not-planning-on-it teenagers, single mothers workin' two jobs and attending classes at community college -- you name it. Think of the oddest duck you know; they probably worked a shift at Lou's."

"Remember Sarah?" 

"H. or P.?"

"Sarah P., Sarah H. was just a lesbian whore."

" _Yea-h_ ," Axel said. "Sarah P.... she was the one who did drag races on the weekend, not to mention a ton of heroin. Why did she leave again?"

"One of the customers started stalking her."

Axel nodded. "Sounds about right. Most people didn't need a reason, just moved on out of that place. I think, dude -- you're still Lou's longest continuous hire, right?"

Cartman spat in the drain on the floor and tapped out the rest of the ash, flicking the burnt-out roach into the sink. "At seven months, yeah."

Stan whistled. "That is not long."

"Yeah," Axel agreed. "One of the biggest problems is the industrial ovens in the back. Lou inherited them with the building; they're probably over 30 years old and a lesson in spontaneous combustion waiting to be learned, but whenever I mention it Lou just goes: 'You have three-thousand dollar give to me?' so I'm done with that game. I think the guy signed a contract with a fire demon, and now it lives in the oven making delicious bagels until the day it can consume his -- "

"What the hell, Ax, it's not that -- "

"Don't say it's not that bad!" He said, jabbing a finger at Cartman. "That thing has claimed lives, bro, or at least, livelihoods -- a dozen employees have cited the ovens as their reason for quitting, and I've seen it, man. I might just wash tables but I get a look-see in the kitchen once in a while -- "

Axel suddenly reigned himself in. "Anyway, here's the point: the first thing I noticed about Lou's diner was that _nobody stayed_ ; the second thing was this: only one dude in the whole place was capable of taming the beast within, and I don't mean the wolf-dog.

"The last thing I learned was that I was wrong; nobody tames the oven. You only get used to being bit."

Axel looked toward the hockey captain. He hunched over his knees and spat into the drain again, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

"And I finally notice that this motherfucker, who I'd pegged as -- no offense dude -- a self-loving racist asshole,"

Stan nodded understandingly. Kenny squeezed out a dry laugh followed up by a brief coughing fit.

" -- just _takes_ the burns. Hangs 'em under the faucet for a hot minute, and keeps going."

"You make it sound like I'm just a fuck-up in the kitchen -- I just don't get why everyone bitches about the burns."

"Homie," Axel deadpanned. "I've seen shit. I haven't seen nothin' like your arms. Anyone who's been burned b'fore will know."

Kenny was already spinning on the toilet and craning over Cartman's knees to get a look. Stan stood and edged over, too, hovering.

" _Go on_ ," The 14-year-old encouraged, standing to turn off the shower. "At least show them the one you got on the big Church Brunch Sunday last May."

Cartman heaved a sigh and as the harsh fluorescent lighting struck his forearm, Stan whistled. Pale scars like inverse zebra stripes with mottled centers lined Cartman's forearm up to the elbow. Wherever the skin tanned, the scars wouldn't -- Kenny picked out the largest just behind the knob of his wrist; he saw where the skin had bubbled and then collapsed, eventually forming a rift of scar tissue. 

"The lines are the oven racks -- they're too fucking close together -- " Cartman was saying, lowering his arm and standing up. "And the oven mits are such a pain in the ass, there's no time during a rush, especially with the Church people on the phone -- shit happens."

"That's why Lou likes you so much." Axel said decisively. He leaned over Kenny to pull the wire and start gathering up the speakers. "Tough son-of-a-bitch won't file worker's comp for fuckin' second-degree burns."

"It's not just that -- I think your pain tolerance is through the roof, man." Stan said. He took a deep pull from the jug, then passed the water to Cartman.

"No doubt!" Axel crowed. "This guy could birth a baby! Once, I seen him slice the tip of his thumb off with a bagel knife, and the bastard just puts a glove on over it and finishes his shift. God, and I'll never forget the time -- "

"Alright, give it a rest, Ax." Cartman said as he cracked the door and they filed out.

The cool air was a relief Kenny's skin; he breathed deeply, put his sweatshirt back on, and this time around as they entered Eric's room, he claimed the bed. 

"But listen, man," The middle schooler was advising. "You should leave that place. Going through all that shit isn't getting you anywhere -- Lou might be a smart man, and yeah, he might like you, but he's still stingy with the silver. It's like my _abuela_ always says: 'Either be conquering like the tiger, or suffer like the mule.'"

"You don't even _have_ an abuela."

"Well, if I did, that's the kind of shit she would say -- "

"Goddammit," Cartman swore. "You always do that, lay out the punch line before I can even squeeze out the joke. It takes all the fun out of being a racist. And I can't even rip on you 'cause you aspire to the stereotypes."

Kenny murmured his approval from the bed. "A preemptive strike mechanism. Not bad."

Axel clasped his hands behind his neck, a mockery of privilege wearing a black Wu-Tang T-shirt. "Learned from the master, I s'pose. That's the other thing -- you know the first thing he says to me? The first thing Cartman says to me at Lou's, he looks at me and says: 'What's he paying _you_? I better not be getting the Mexican rate.'"

"So I'm like -- because yeah, I get this all the time -- I tell him, 'My family's from _Columbia_ , asshole. And don't worry -- he's paying me in hard candy.' And he's like, 'Oh yeah? So what's that make you a refugee of, the housing bubble?'"

Axel cracked up at his own memory. "You spend a lifetime batting at Mexican border jokes, boys, and you'll appreciate whenever a good curve-ball comes your way, especially a bit of Columbian trivia."

"Where's Stan?" Cartman asked.

"Dunno, he ran off when we cracked the seal."

"Right -- time for you to go. Don't gotta say good-bye to McCormick, he's passed out -- you'll see him again, anyway."

Kenny couldn't open his eyes but he heard the movement, the shuffle of feet and flutter of conversation in the room.

"What -- " Axel was saying. "Yo, I was good, right? I didn't say anything out-of-the-box, just like you said."

"What? Yeah, man -- that's not it. You just need to go. Take the back door."

The soft press of footsteps, the jangle and shift of Axel's backpack as he shouldered it and headed for the doorway. "This is about the cards, isn't it?"

"Yeah, the cards." Then there was the clatter of something -- probably a keychain -- striking the doorframe, and the distant sound of quick, arhythmic footsteps down the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

### The Moon

The standing clock in the living room was bonging through a long cycle for 10 o'clock when I heard another noise in the background -- something that didn't belong. "The doorbell."

"I didn't hear anything."

I looked at Kyle where he sat shuffling cards on my rolling table. Stan was a body on the couch, half-consciously tinkering with the hand-radio. Neither of them paid any attention to each other or me, but nevertheless seemed to vibe harder with each other than the fucking sun and earth; they were like the Eskimos and snow, like back-taxes and the IRS -- fuck, if Kyle hadn't brought that tiny pipe of his, I wouldn't be this faded. Once Axel was out the door, The Broflovski Civic was in my driveway and Stan was coming to life. I'd decided on the garage. Kyle plugged in the fairy lights, put on whatever new indie band he was into, and Stan had dragged the space heater over to the table. I sat down on an up-turned crate and packed a bowl. "Cute pipe," I remember telling Kyle, since I was already high and loose as all hell. "Cute sweater," he'd said, eyeing Ted's Black Label sweatshirt. "Flammable material, huh?" and I thought of Kenny curled on my bed in the fetal position like an angel of death -- 

They were still deciding on what card game to play when I heard the door bell. 

" _Sure_ , Kyle," I said, standing. "Well, why don't you two go bury your heads in dirt while I check the fucking door, and we'll see who looks more stupid."

All things aside, Broflovski flips a really solid finger, even without eye contact. 

I left the garage for the living room and shut the door behind me to seal in the warmth. A light was cutting through the darkness, coming from the downstairs bathroom. I felt a flicker of annoyance rise in me -- _why are you rummaging through my shit, McCormick_ \-- but the thought couldn't quite make it past the blanket high that buzzed behind my eyeballs, so instead I kind of lumbered over like any stoned fucking zombie to take a look at the pretty light. 

Kenny saw me in the mirror. He looked panicked but I really wanted to laugh because his eyes were so red. Blue-eyed people always look really fuckin' manic when they get high. I cleared my throat.

"You guys left me in there with Worm." He complained. "It was super dark, and I was really chill, and then I heard it _scratching_ \-- "

"What you -- fuckin' around in the bathroom for?" Okay, it didn't come out _exactly_ as I'd planned.

"My mouth is so dry, man -- I needa brush my teeth!"

I did laugh, this time. Hey, at least he was panicked about cotton-mouth and not, say, getting stabbed in a parking lot. Also -- it was cute.

"Okay, princess -- there's toothbrushes in the, uh -- _eff_ ," I rubbed my forehead and made push-pull motions with my other hand. "Jesus's fucking fudge-nuggets, what is this thing? What is this called? The _drawer!_ There's spares in the drawer."

As Kenny yanked open the right drawer, the doorbell rang. 

"Whoa," Kenny said, tearing open a new toothbrush and fumbling with the toothpaste. "Who's that? It's late, isn't it? I was passed out for like three hours."

"It rang before," I said. 

He squinted, pushed up his glasses with his middle finger like he always did. "Mm -- I don't think so, man. Unless it was like, a long time ago -- in which case, I mean -- can you say, hash-slinging slasher? That's sketchy -- "

"No -- _shut up_ , McCormick, you're baked! It rang like five seconds ago. I heard it in the garage." 

Kenny was shaking his head, but he gave up the point, sticking the brush into his mouth. "Well, are ya gonna answer it?"

I turned away from the light to face the door. Ascertaining that the doorbell rang had seemed like such an impossible task, before -- now actually answering the door was unfathomable. It was like one of those goddamned moving shapes challenges in Mario Sunshine, like just as you finish one level and you're thinking that was impossible, that _blew_ , you find out there's one more level, and it's the same bullshit but now everything _spins_.

So because I'm an idiot, and I'm high, I started explaining all of this to McCormick. 

And because he's high, and we're the same kind of idiot, he's nodding his head and spitting into the sink. "Yeah, uh-huh, I remember that game, dude."

He drank from the faucet and spit again, then pushed out of the bathroom and headed for the front door. "Okay, let's do it together. Two half-baked teenagers makes one average citizen, right?"

_Maybe in South Park_ , I think.

Kenny lifted to his toes to check the peep-hole. "Wait, I know that uniform. Did you guys order Japanese? Better be tempura." He fiddled with the clasps and pulled open the door. 

"Hey, guys, thanks for ordering with Little Tokyo." droned the delivery guy. 

"Hey, Pat. You're working late."

"Hey, Ken. Yeah, Tucker bailed on his shift. Here, take your shi- I mean here's your food." 

"How much?" Kenny asked, taking the bags. 

"It was paid over the phone."

"Oh," Kenny said, turning back into the house. "Fuckin' sweet."

I asked for the receipt from the pimply kid called Pat. I scanned it and recognized the last four number's of Teddy's credit card. Pushy asshole.

"I always do that," Kenny was saying from the kitchen. Wherever he went, light appeared. "Get too fuckin' high and pass out. It sucks."

"How does it suck, exactly?" I asked, closing the door on the sound of the delivery kid's motor-bike starting up. "Three hours of extra sleep, and you wake up right when food gets here -- sounds like a pretty good deal to me. _I've_ been solo-ing a Stan-and-Kyle _'super best friend'_ session -- how d'you think _I_ feel? Wait, let me rephrase that -- how _high_ d'you think I am?"

"Kyle's here?"

"Can't you taste the smug from his fuckin' hybrid?"

"Is that why you made Axel leave?"

"Axel left because I can't tolerate more than one member of a racial minority in my house at one time." It wasn't a whole truth, it wasn't even a half-truth. 

Kenny hesitated a half-second, pulling open the upper cabinet. He collected a small tower of bowls, and said nothing. 

"Did you dream?" 

"No -- I heard if you smoke a lot of weed you won't dream as much."

"Well that's a lie." I said, nevertheless grateful he had nothing new to report.

"Grab the food," he said, brushing past me with the bowls and a bunch of chopsticks under one arm. "Garage, right? Yeah, now I hear it. God I hate Kyle's music."

"I think you guys just have different tastes."

I heard Kenny's footsteps halt, then back-track to the kitchen. "Eric -- that was the most borderline empathetic thing I've ever heard you say. Especially about Kyle."

His breath at my shoulder, the clink of ceramic on granite as he placed the bowls back on the counter. I eyed his hands, wary. Felt like he'd been fuckin' _touchin'_ me all night. I knew realistically I was just -- as an only child and a black-hearted one at that -- plain not used to being touched. It was only in the moments when I felt most vulnerable -- on my knees, puking, for example -- that I felt that strange longing for human comfort. But it was _so_ strange, and _so_ rare, that it always felt like something from outside myself, an invasion -- a weakness. It was in those rare moments I sent Lotus a vague invitation, and she would come over. I think she was a bit of a sociopath, too; she'd never come for emotional connection. So us two, we were simple math. 

Sex was -- I don't know. It's whatever, you know? It's like waking up with a craving for chicken and peanut butter; it only comes along once in a while and I have to go kind of out of my way to get it, but once I do it's never anything but sloppy-perfect. _Fuck_ , I was 16 -- I'd only had Lotus's perfect blonde hair between my dead-numb fingers a handful of times -- and I already thought I knew sex. 

"Sex isn't chicken and peanut butter, dude."

Kenny was always nipping at my personal bounds, I noticed. He'd got so quiet -- and in that quiet, it seemed, learned some new tricks. Every time I saw him since we started high school it was as a shade on the back wall or a name whispered in places I never expected to hear. A wolf at the door -- he was lurking on the edges of conversations that had nothing to do with him; he probably knew all those 'mid-town honkies'' stories before they'd spoken one word to him. And in the hot-box I finally saw a little bit of the old McCormick -- the one who pitched gummy bears at people who pissed him off, the one who could drop a solid f-bomb -- but here in the darkness that new quietness _exploded_. He was a pair of hunter's eyes staring into all the empty parts of me; he was the five-point star drawing spirographs between my shoulderblades. He was speaking without words, speaking in the simple geometric language of physical comfort -- a language I just didn't know. Lotus and I were simple math -- Kenny was introducing me to derivations. 

_Does he know calculus?_ I wonder. _This new Kenny with the hunter's eyes._

"Do I know calculus?" He was smiling. "You are so fucking baked, bro." _Too close,_ I thought. _You're too close to me._

He finally moved away. "Grab the food, will ya?"

"Do we have to?"

"Huh?"

The clink of ceramic on granite as he set the bowls on the counter -- did I hear it before, or was that just a premonition?

"You don't -- " He was saying. "You don't gotta go in there, it's your call -- your house, but -- " 

" -- I think it would be kinda cool to hang out just the four of us. Been a while, hasn't it?"

"If you think it'll be the same four people in that room -- you're dumber than I thought."

"I'm not _sayin'_ that -- "

"You sound like your _dad_ when you're high," I said.

_Eff._ I cranked my gaze rung over rung away from the counter and up to his face. I don't mean that shit, I want to tell him. I just start noticing stuff like his towny dialect when we get arguing -- and we're all guilty of it, sometimes, God knows Axel is -- and then I remember the shit that hurts him, and how to get him to shut up quick. Like I said before, when you're built to kill -- nothing _nothing_ can sate your thirst for it. The worst part was McCormick used to be proud, proud of the lilting dialect he soaked up from the scum of South Park during his youth -- I remembered him as the loud-and-rebellious 12-year-old, spray-paint staining his fingertips and saying shit like "don't gotta" until upper-middle class _Stan_ started picking it up too. I took him down because I could -- because it was in my nature. Kenny definitely _wasn't_ proud of resembling his deadbeat alcoholic dad; he was terrified of it. 

"You like it." He said, leering at me with his crooked teeth and I saw self-fulfillment in his eyes. "Can't touch me, man -- my purse was a fuckin' bitch to go through, and I know I'm nothing like my father. Besides -- you _like_ it, don't pretend the four of us don't sound like a trunkload of townies when we get talkin'."

When the wildebeest at last sees the lioness in the long grass, it is already too late. Kenny is a pair of black-framed eyes hiding long discerning claws. 

"Hey," He said, looming close. "What'you smiling at? Did you miss me?"

I remember how to breathe. I could draw a fucking diagram tracking the path of a single molecule of oxygen through my trachea, to the lungs, the heart, the bloodstream. I could probably get into the voluntary and involuntary musculature of the diaphragm. Remembering to breathe is like flipping through the buyer's manual -- and right now I've dropped the damn booklet. Time to rope together a plan of escape.

"Jesus, did Axel blow you when I wasn't looking? Where is this fucking ego coming from?" I said, and finally took the Little Tokyo bags from the table. 

"Definitely didn't miss _come-at-me-bro_ McCormick," I said as I made a quick -- okay a _relatively_ quick ( _left-two one-right, Eric -- !_ ) -- bid for the garage.

"Don't fuckin' -- " There was a clink as he gathered up the bowls again. "Don't fuckin' run from me, man."

"Which is it this time?" He said, already at my shoulder. "Are you laughing at me or are you laughing at death?"

"Both."

I was laughing because Kenny had told _me_ not to run from _him_ , and if only Déjà vu Boy were here to remind me exactly how many times I had never heard that before.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with this chapter I just wanted to show that they're older, but they're the same really -- I dunno, group dynamics are tough.

### The Moon, cont'd.

"The game is President. Twos and red Threes clear, Venturas high -- first round begins with the Three of Spades."

Kyle was a born dealer, and I don't mean like Axel. His Jew instincts were in perfect harmony with the law of cards; he had a sharp eye for numbers, a cut-throat competitive nature, and a penchant for backstabbing and deception.

I sometimes got the upper hand in President with fast reflexes, but by the time I sat back on my crate and pushed away the food, my vision was so swimmy I could barely track Kyle's hand as he dealt the deck into four equal parts.

"Kenny!" Stan called from the couch, locked onto his phone. "Tell me something, anything -- give me one of your gnarliest nightmares; I want to change my Tinder profile."

I lurched, lost control of my voice: "Oh, fuck _you_ , Stanley."

Kyle opted for the more poetic route: "I think -- of all the new developments in communication of the 21st century -- Tinder is one of the most detrimental to mankind."

"First of all, Cartman -- relax, Kenny does this for me all the time." Stan said with perfect diplomatic dignity and zero fucking common sense. "And Kyle -- as long as mankind has you, I think it'll be alright."

"Don't wink at me," Kyle shot back. "That is such a political non-solution to the problem, Stan. The problem is you're _still_ using it -- assessing the probability of a relationship with someone by glancing at their most flattering photograph for three and a half seconds is not how natural relationships _form_ , it's not why we have these massive brains dedicated to making connections. If we, as a society, begin to systematically reduce everyone's worth down to a set of bogus beauty standards -- "

"Can you -- spare us the fag and short of it, Kyle?" 

I snorted, admired my best friend as he speared a piece of sweet potato tempura with a chopstick. 

Kyle paused in his rant, glanced over at the blond. " _You're_ in a mood."

"What're you talking about?" I caught myself saying. "He's perfect."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "You're _both_ in a mood."

"Anyway, dude," Stan said, picking up his cards and beginning to organize them. "Tinder isn't about babies; it's about sex."

"I got a dream for you." Kenny said, reaching down to put his bowl on the floor and then picking up his cards from the table. "Last week, maybe. I'm suspended in darkness. My body is pierced head-to-toe by fish hooks -- to pick one out, I would have to tear all the skin off one of my arms. And I realize I have to make an ungodly decision -- "

" -- I'll just have to pleasure her with my mouth."

Kenny grinned and pushed up his glasses. Stan was chuckling and typing away on his phone screen, but Kyle looked vaguely disgusted. 

"Vaginas still scare you, Kyle?"

He turned a glare on me so fast I suspected he already had the engine running before I got in the car. "Last time I checked, you were more invested in Eggo waffles than girls."

"Says the virgin in the room."

"Oh yeah? And who are _you_ banging, fat-ass?"

"Lotus Summers, apparently," Stan supplied, throwing down a Two to clear the field, then pausing in the rare moment of inactivity to examine his hand.

"No, really."

"It's the truth, man," Stan said, finally playing a pair of Nines. "Heard it from a reliable source."

There was a pinch at my leg. I looked over. _Reliable source,_ Kenny whispered to me. He was perfect. 

"Hey, my hand is shit. You gotta Nine? I'll trade you a Two."

"No in-game trades!" Kyle snapped. 

I looked away from Kenny's jaunty upper canine to address Stan's buzzkill best friend. "Blow me."

"Sounds like I don't need to."

"That mean you're willing?" This was an old game we played, Kyle and I.

He had all the verbal ferocity of his mother, her nose and her flawless eyesight, all hung on his dad's unremarkable scarecrow frame. "If I had to blow one person in this room, I would break my ribs and blow _myself_ before I went down on you."

_If I had to go down on someone in the room_ \-- I caught myself thinking.

Stan whistled, cocked his crooked half-smile at me. "Yeah, I agree with Eric. I'd blow Kenny before breaking my ribs, I think."

" _Seriously?_ "

"Shit," Kenny threw a pair of Queens and pushed his glasses up. "My game isn't half as strong as you all make it out to be."

"That's just 'cause you don't play the game, dude." Stan said. 

"How's that?"

"You gotta get on Tinder," The class president advised solemnly. "And take off the fuckin' hood."

"Is that how you won the election, Marsh? Offers to pimp out your classmates on Tinder?"

"Is that how you did it?" Kyle said, stuck in the past, his voice washed cold and brisk with disbelief. "You charmed Lotus over here with _Tinder?_ "

"I don't have a fucking Tinder." I was forced to clear the field, and started a new round with a nice low Seven.

"Anyway -- no charm required, the way I hear it." Stan said.

Kyle threw a Jack and I wanted to strangle him. How was he at Jacks already? I've still got _Fours_.

The game picked up and no one talked for a while. Stan finished with an Ace and a flourish of clear cards that the three of us made violent grabs for; it wasn't much, but if I could maneuver someone -- say, _Kyle_ \-- into a skipping loop, I might have a chance at a modest title. It sucked being Bono the first round.

I leaned a little further over the table and angled my cards. Kenny started the new round with a Nine. I put down my Nine to skip Kyle's turn. 

"Seriously?" He growled, again. 

"What?" Kenny muttered, as if he didn't know. 

"You two always do this, team me to the bottom and split the rewards."

"We're not breakin' any rules."

"Right, Kenny -- 'cause it's total chance you know exactly which singles he has."

"Oops," He shrugged, nonplussed. "I guess I peeked."

"It's just strategy, Kyle." Stan waved from the couch. 

"I know I _know_ , it's just the way they're doing it."

We ran out of matching singles. Kenny threw his last card. I blocked Kyle with an Ace and finished with my old pair of Fours -- it was the kind of play used not just to defeat your opponent, but also give them a bit of the finger as well. Kyle gathered the cards to shuffle for the next round. 

Kenny's knee bumped mine as he bent over, abandoning his bowl in favor of the tempura carton. I pushed down his hood before I made the decision, really. 

"Yo," He said, leaning over and plucking another container from the floor. "You know what I heard? I heard Asian take-out is like, really good for you."

It was such a ridiculous thing to say that I accepted the carton of wriggly dry egg noodles and chopsticks he held out to me, and I began to eat. 

"Duude," Stan suddenly keened, and held his phone out for Kyle. At the angle I could just make out two familiar shapes, one orange and one blue. "Check out this sweet blow-back."

After watching the four seconds of blurry video, Kyle reached out and hit the replay.

"Yeah," He finally said, sighing. "I wouldn't show that around too much." 

"What?" Stan said, pulling the phone away. "Why not? That's the most perfect blow-back I ever did."

"McCormick did all the work." I added.

"No, it's good, man -- it's just -- " For once, Kyle was fumbling.

"Axel said it was hot." Stan said.

"That's just it." Kyle finished.

Stan watched the video again. "Oh, yeah, I kinda see what you mean."

"Who's recording?"

"Cartman's friend."

Kyle's shuffling bridge spat a few cards onto the table. "Cartman's what -- ?"

"Friend. Axel. He sent it to me just now." Stan clarified. "Hey, why'd he leave, anyway? Kid looked packed for a fucking hike."

Kyle just shook his head and continued gathering up the cards. "I'm not getting a word of this."

"He's this Hispanic kid from Middle. I honestly think you'd like him, dude."

"Columbian," Kenny said. "He's Columbian."

Kyle's eyes narrowed on me. Sharp and dark like his mother's eyes, honey-brown like his father's. He didn't miss a damn thing, Kyle. We could argue all night, just like old times, but it couldn't erase the past few years of hellfire. _Backstabbing Jew --_

Stan leaned over the table to collect his new hand. "I already put the video on Instagram, anyway."

Kenny snorted around his chopsticks. Kyle groaned. I didn't really get what the big deal was. Stan glanced around and finally addressed the mood in the room: "What?"

"Stan," Kyle started, carefully organizing his hand. "Have you ever thought this might be why Wendy needs so many ' _breaks_ '?"

Kyle didn't even need to supply the air-quotes for Testaburger's words -- his voice did enough.

The class president furrowed his presidential brow. "I don't know what you mean. Wendy told me -- "

"No, no --"" I cut him off. "I don't wanna hear what the bitch said. I get enough of her society's under-dog, ruined goddess complex just walking to class."

"If it ain't one thing, it's another." Kenny agreed.

"What -- " Stan began, then turned pleading eyes on his best friend. "Kyle!"

"What?"

"You're just gonna let them -- ?"

"She's _your_ girlfriend."

"I don't believe it -- you agree with them!"

All eyes turned to Kyle, but the Jew hardly looked up from his cards. "Look, Stan, if you really want my opinion -- Wendy is obviously very intelligent, and she makes a lot of valid points -- "

He paused to cast a strict eye over me and McCormick. " -- And I can _respect_ her views, but it's not a lot of fun to be around."

Stan finally sat up. "That's got nothing to do with our relationship, though -- "

"But it impacts you, man. I've known Wendy just as long as you have, and she's clearly got a lot of baggage right now." Kyle carried on calmly. "What she needs in a relationship is -- "

"A _sponge_ to soak up all her batshit theories."

Kyle eyed me as he finished: "And I don't think that's healthy for you."

"You _do_ agree with them," Stan said, scandalized.

"She's used to you, so she'll keep coming back, but trust me, Stan; you have enough cynicism in your life without taking on hers as well."

"Oh, so this is about my cynicism -- " Stan spat back.

"Relax, man," I advised. "We just wanna see you blossom. Right now you're just a sapling, and she's the ivy. If you're not careful, she'll choke you out while you're both reaching for the sun."

"Kyle?" He pleaded.

"What? That was the most astute advice I've ever heard Cartman give."

"Stan," Kenny cut in. "Listen, this is bi-curious Boy Meets World lesson one: drop the childhood girlfriend."

" _Bi-curious_ \-- what?" Then: " _Kyle!_ "

But Kyle did nothing to refute the implication. Or -- he said nothing. But I watched him turn a rare grin on his best friend until Stan's hackles slowly fell in the few moments of silence. I'd been watching Stan and Kyle's super-best friendship at work almost my entire life, but I still didn't understand its intricacies.

"Thanks for the impromptu intervention, guys." He said finally, still a little sour. "I'll think about it."

"Good President," I praised. "Now can we get on with this round? What's your law, Stan?"

"Fine," He agreed, considering his fan of cards with dangerous intensity. "But watch out, fish-dicks -- I'm on my Donald Trump shit tonight."

" _Yo_ \-- " Kenny said suddenly. "Can we play Mac? Can we please play Miller Mac? I fucking can't anymore with this -- this elevator music."

"This isn't _elevator music_ , you stupid fag -- it's ska." I fired back on instinct. "Fuck, you can take the kid from the trailer park -- but you can't take the trailer park from the kid."

"Whatever dude, all I know is there's fuckin' --- fuckin' saxophones -- "

"Jesus Christ, Kenny -- that's a _trumpet_. You couldn't pick out the brass section if I lined up the fucking _instruments_ to look at. You might pass your fuckin' classes, but you have the music IQ of a cane toad." 

"Eric -- " Kyle interrupted my flow. "Here, take this."

I turned and saw he'd packed a new bowl in that cute pipe of his. Let it be said, Eric Cartman very much likes to receive gifts; and I wasn't going to refuse one so perfect, even coming from the backstabbing Jew. I forgot the conversation and took the offered pipe, then pat down my pockets for a lighter.

"Lighter." I said, waiting for Kenny's zippo. It didn't come. "What? What's this face?"

"Dude," Stan sputtered. "You just took the piss out of him for wanting to listen to Mac Miller."

" _No,_ I just _roasted_ him for being ignorant white trash." I corrected firmly. "That was a roast."

"I know what it was," Kenny said, standing and moving over to the speakers. "That was pure love -- I _knew_ you fucking missed me."

The trumpets faded out to be replaced by the rap Diablo himself. _"I'll just be like 'fuck you, what you need?' You can't get nothin' from me -- "_

He was so lucky our tastes overlapped enough for it to be okay to play this kind of shit at parties.

"When I roast you back," He said, returning to his stool and tossing the zippo to me. "It will be horrific."

I held his hunter's eyes for a moment, then flicked the lighter. 

"What's your law, Stan?" Kyle prompted.

Stan was on his Donald Trump shit for four long games. The thing about President was, once you became president, it was fairly easy to stay that way. By the end of his term, Stan had successfully established a mandatory card trade (read: _clear card tax_ ), the law of standing clears (literally -- players must stand before playing their final card -- the point of this law was simply chaos), and a really ingenius "price floor" policy for each round's starting card; so if you were unlucky enough to be clutching at Fours and Fives when the president's price floor was Seven -- you were shit outta luck. The subtleties of the game were often beyond its players (read: Craig, Clyde, Stotch, et al.) so after many years of playing against South Park's dumb and dumber, I could appreciate a good President.

"Alright, I'm tired of kicking your asses," Stan said, abandoning his cards to recline on the couch. "You got enough for a doobie?"

"A _what?_ "

"Jesus, Stan," I chuckled, ignoring Kyle. "You forgot about those piss tests quick."

"I sunk a half-hour into a hot-box, why should I worry about it now? Sometimes, you just gotta say -- fuck it."

"Fuck it," Kenny agreed.

I took out the rolling supplies while Kyle gathered up the cards, and rearranged my table the way I liked it: nothing but a pack of XL ecco papers, a shitty Bob Marley grinder the size of a dollar coin, and the bag of "fresh blueberries" from Axel.

"I hate rolling," Kyle said.

"I hate your bitching."

"It's so much weed to burn all at once. You think that _hack_ -cough of yours is unrelated to how much of that shit you smoke?"

"We smoke the same fuckin' herb, Kyle."

"Yeah, the difference is I pick up like once every couple months. Pipes are way more efficient -- "

"Don't try to make an economic argument here -- you just admitted to dropping hundreds on Mary fucking Jane. Doesn't matter what you do with her after that, the principle is the same; if you wanna cut costs in your life, you don't buy weed."

"Except you _can_ cut costs," Kyle said. "And the difference is -- like you said -- hundreds."

"Money ain't shit," I said. "Smoke the joint, Kyle."

" _Or_ Stan can just pack a fuckin' bowl."

"Listen to me for a second, will ya? You're not _listenin'_ to me," I said, carefully pinching the paper around the filter and beginning to even out the roll. "Glass isn't the same. You ever brought a bong into a hot-box? Feels fuckin' stupid, doesn't it. There's a social aspect to passing a jay around that can't be imitated with pipes. Smoking an entire joint with shit-people is murder -- once you light the thing, you can't escape, right? The weed's just gonna keep burning, burning, and the fudge-nugs just keep talking, talking about their stupid shit until you wanna hold a lighter under the joint and end it in one go. But -- 

"But if you can pass a dub around till it's nothing and think, 'Fuck, already?' then that's somethin' special. You can't get that with glass. Every time you roll you risk hell, but you're also takin' a shot at that perfect _other_ thing."

"What's everybody staring at." I ran my tongue along the seal. Axel was good for stouties, sluggers, but I liked rolling pins; they burned slower and held tighter.

"I -- agree with you," Kyle said. "I think."

Stan released a dry chuckle. "Behold, the power of marijuana, uniting rivals in sweaty bathrooms since the 60s."

"Can I light it?" Kenny asked, quiet at my shoulder. 

"I was gonna call a lighter-draw," I said, nevertheless turning to offer the rolling pin to my blond friend.

Kenny took it by the filter in the over-delicate fashion of someone who doesn't often roll -- he didn't know the ins and outs of its construction the way I did, so he handled it soft but distant. Joints were like people; if you're not familiar with the sticks and stems and quality of the paper, you'll never know who they are, really, or what they're capable of. Sometimes you gotta take the paper in your hands, work it between your fingers until something _does_ break, until something punctures the skin, just to know what it takes. Of course, with joints the damage of such an experiment was irreparable, but the _experience_ \-- invaluable.

"You don't gotta twist it off." I said.

He glanced up and shot me a cocksure half-smile, because I didn't think -- and just threw his towny dialect right back at him.

Kenny flicked his wrist -- the zippo flared to life and caught the edge of the paper. I watched the slight reflection in his glasses as the flame crawled up the spine of the joint and ate away all the extra paper.

"This is beautiful, man," He said, as the last of the golden glow licked over his lenses. 

"I'll put it under Special Skills on my resume."

Stan was in the middle of a long toke when he brought up the idea. 

"Hey Kyle -- " He turned, bellowing like a steam engine. "You should do a reading for us."

"A what?" I was high and walking through every thought in my head, as usual. "You doing, like, missionary work, now? Reading the Torah?"

"No -- !" Kyle coughed. "Don't blow your smoke in my face, Stan!"

"That must be some fucking bible study," I said, bumping Kenny's knee for support. "Hey, which d'you prefer -- the wisest king on crack cutting babies in half, or the one where our boy Moses is in the sky with diamonds talking to plant-life?"

" _No_ , Cartman -- "

But McCormick was laughing so I kept talking. "Personal favorite has to be the time Moses hiked a mountain with his bros, took eight doobies to the face and threw down the stone tablets -- "

"Shut up, fat-ass!" Kyle shouted.

" -- _eight doobies to the face_ \-- !" Stan was clutching a his sides.

" _You_ too?" 

Stan answered his best friend's accusation amid half-controlled huffs of amusement. "I mean -- you gotta admit, man, your guy had a pretty -- ah -- a pretty good relationship with that bush -- "

"I think, fuckin' -- " I was high, I was stuttering, but I was on a roll. "What's her name? Stan's girl -- Wendy! Yeah, Testaburger is the one who told me about all the dick symbology in the Bible, and apparently they weren't talking about a dude named Jesus at all, but a type of shroom that gets you _really fuckin' high_." 

"That's _retarded,_ " Kyle deadpanned, and Kenny complimented my impression of Axel's lisp.

"Nah, man, I heard that theory too. It's from this linguist -- " Stan said from his phone screen. "He's legit."

"A theory that you heard _from Wendy_."

"Yeah, so what?"

"Are we actually reading the Torah?"

"No," Stan answered. "Kyle's gonna do a Tarot reading, 'cause it's _really_ close to Halloween, and he's _really_ good at it -- "

"I'm not any good at it." Kyle said firmly. "Stan asked me to learn, so I picked up a pack of the cards. All the manuals say beginners should carry the cards with them at all times to get familiar with the energy of the deck."

"Jesus Christ," I swore. "You decide to dabble in the occult, and the first person you go to is Kyle Broflovski?"

Kyle sighed. "Look, I don't wholly understand it, either -- "

"Because you're good at _cards_!" Stan insisted.

"As usual, Stan, you've got your minorities crossed," I said. " _Jews_ count cards, _gypsies_ read fortunes. They may've both been in the concentration camps, but they're two entirely different species."

Kyle pulled a box slightly taller than the average playing deck from his bag. "After all these years, Eric, it still fucking surprises me how much of an ignorant genius you can be," I watched the cards blur between his hands. "See? You don't even know how to respond to it -- is it an insult? A compliment? Even I don't know -- it's an oxymoron: a self-contradiction, just like you."

"Last week we totally predicted the outcome of the homecoming game -- " Stan was saying. 

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, finally moving to pass the joint on to my left. "27 to nine massacre?"

"Well," Stan backtracked. "Not the scores, but the outlook was pretty grim."

"That's not how Tarot is supposed to be used, anyway," Kyle said. 

I snorted. "What'you _doing_ , McCormick?"

"You -- " He sputtered. "You always do this, dude -- you hand it off to me in the most impossible way -- "

_Oh._ I turned my hand over and he finally wrestled the joint from my fingers.

"You good?"

"Unh?" He said, blowing smoke in my face. I inhaled, accepted the gift. "I'm good. I remember when they were talking about this Tarot shit before, but I think Stan forgot I was there."

"Kill that," I said, nodding to the simmering dub. I could stare at his teeth all fucking day. They disappeared again when his mouth closed around the filter, but I kept looking.

"I'm _not_ doing another Wendy reading, dude." Kyle was saying. "Think of something else."

"I -- I really can't." Stan replied miserably. "Maybe you should read someone else."

"I wanna see them," Kenny said, reaching for the cards with grabby hands.

"No." Kyle said, moving out of reach with the deck. "I'm not supposed to let anyone except me touch the cards -- it has to do with keeping the integrity of the tellings."

I snorted. _Integrity of the tellings, ___I whispered to McCormick.

"Let him see a card, babe."

" _No_ , Stan," He insisted, throwing an exasperated glare at his best friend for the mellow reprimand. "You asked me to do this, and I'm going to do it right if I can." 

"Does the box count?" I said.

Kyle whipped around and grabbed the box dangling from my hands. "It bothers me you're this invested in something you found on _thriftyfun.com_. What else did ya find there, Kyle? Somethin' to entertain Sheila -- ?"

Kyle bit something back as Kenny pinched me -- I responded to both: "Screw you!"

"Hey," Stan said. "Read Cartman."

" _No_ ," Kyle and I responded simultaneously.

"Come on guys, for Chrissake. It'll be fun." Stan said. "And you kinda wanna know Cartman's fortune."

"Do you really though."

"What is it you motherfuckers don't get about the fact that," I decided to use hand motions to emphasize my words: "This shit isn't _real_ \-- "

"Yeah, go on -- " Stan was saying over me. "It could be interesting."

"Fine," Kyle was caving. "But I'm not doing a full sixteen-card lay. It's late and we've got school in the morning -- "

"Hey, yeah -- you guys don't wanna break _curfew_ ," I tried for sincerity but got lost in sneering. "You should probably head home now."

"Come on, Cartman, don't be a bitch -- "

"Don't _call_ me a bitch -- "

"Look, here's the deal," Kyle cut in, all business. "I can give you a simple three-card reading. Stan shuts up, nobody calls you a bitch; and we all leave happy. What do you say?"

I stacked my elbows over my knees and gave up the fight because they would leave quicker. "Whatever."

The fairy lights flickered. Kyle's honey-brown eyes didn't release me. "I need your consent to do this telling, Cartman."

"Ha!" I barked. "That's a laugh. You gonna molest my spirit energy, Kyle? While you're at it, suck my spirit balls."

"...Fine! Christ, you take this seriously. You have my consent to wiggle your Jew fingers around in my future."

Kyle sighed. "I guess that's the best I'm going to get, from you." I realized we were older, he and I. 

Kyle began carefully mixing the tall cards. Kenny's hand was growing heavy on my back. I looked over my shoulder at him.

"I'm so frosty, brother." He mumbled. 

"That mean you're cold, or really blazed?"

"Both."

"Can you stop touching me?"

"Can't lift my arm," He smiled, high and slow. 

"Your motherfucking leg is working just fine," I nodded to where his knee bobbed against mine.

"Do you want me to stop?"

I'm lost looking at his canines again and just starting to understand something of the thing between Stan and Kyle when the wannabe gypsy interrupted me. 

"You ready?"

"Yeah," I turned away. "Let's get this over with."

"The first card will represent your past; the second, your present; and the third -- "

"Let me guess: the third is the future?"

Kyle's eyes hardened to twin glowing flint-stones and I held them with matching hatred. Stan leaned over and muttered something to Kenny.

"For your past: The Tower."

I looked at the card laid in front of me. On it was a scene of destruction: a tower on a rock outcropping being struck by lightning, two people in mid-air falling to their deaths. _Looks about right,_ I thought. _Maybe a few more people out the windows._ I pictured the faces of the teachers at P.C. Middle, the ones caught with their hands too deep to get away on bribes and good behavior.

"This is a good card for you, Eric."

I looked up and locked eyes with Kyle. He wore his usual deadpan expression -- the one he mostly used when dealing with me -- but in his eyes I saw some of the weary sincerity he used to advise Stan about his girlfriend, or remind Kenny about his migraine pills. 

"The Tower represents war; war on the people around you, but more importantly, war on yourself. The destruction of the Tower is sudden, violent, and often -- blinding. But once all the lies are cleared away, what remains is a foundation of truth."

"This card is, essentially, the _rude awakening_." He finished.

As the second card flipped I tracked his expression the whole way -- it would reveal more to me than the card itself. I saw him blanch -- but the sign of discomfort was fleeting -- and he swiftly resettled into the usual deadpan. Stan and Kenny's quiet conversation had stuttered to a stop. McCormick went still at my side. I finally looked at the card.

"Your present: the Three of Swords, Reversed."

In front of me, a human heart sunk down on three swords with different handles. The center sword pierced the blue pulmonary artery with uncomfortable detail -- the others stuck out of the left and right atria; all three were dripping with blood.

"The Three of Swords represents suffering: usually suffering in a relationship, in the form of emotional pain -- suspicion, and doubt. Right side up, it has a relatively positive meaning: after all the pain, the ordeal is over; the blood drains and the heart is released. Reversed -- the heart sinks down on the blades. There is no relief."

"This is the card of betrayal."

As he finished, Stan suddenly shifted his feet to the floor with a huff. "You don't have to _feel_ like this, dude -- "

"It is a _card_ game, Stanley," I snapped. "Not effing reality. Flip the last card and let's be done with this."

As the last card flipped, I tried to track the expression on Kyle's face, but before I could get a proper read, Kenny's stool was clattering to the floor and -- after spitting something about a headache -- McCormick left the garage.

The three of us chewed on the following silence for several moments. The lights flickered again. In the background Mac Miller was rapping about the nature of time from a hotel balcony.

I finally choked and coughed up Kyle's own line: " _Seriously?_ "

"Look -- " He said. "The Death card doesn't necessarily mean death -- "

"Is someone gonna go _handle_ that?" I said, waiting for Stan to go check on McCormick.

Nobody moved.

"It's not -- " Stan started, stopped. "It's not that we don't want to, man -- "

He exchanged a quick glance with his best friend. "It's just, we think you should do it."

"Fuck that! I can't control his episodes."

"I think you can." Kyle said. 

"What the hell do you know? It's _your_ fault -- !"

"I know you two have barely talked since freshman year, but still managed to cheat me at cards all night."

"Face it," Stan added. "You guys vibe."

I refused. Pushed up my sleeves, felt cold, shoved them down again. I stared at the Tower, the three bloody swords, and the card called Death.

I got up, swiped Kenny's zippo from the table. "I'm gonna go; I'ma fuck 'im up -- and you'll all be sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so -- is this working? the story's gonna follow psychological- and soon supernatural themes -- but I'm trying to keep some of the old south park dark humor. 
> 
> honestly laughed my ass off writing about captain hindsight's new bonk, but i have no clue if this is working for people.


	11. The Sun, Reversed

###### October 27

"I'm only asking 'cause I figured you might like the chance to kick some North Park ass."

"What's the deal -- none of the fam coming out?"

"Everyone's coming out," Rainer glared. "But I'm not taking chances. You in or out?"

"In."

I didn't have a choice. Rainer asked the question to keep up the illusion of a partnership -- but he was under my thumb, and it scared him. Scared animals were dangerous; scared animals went rabid -- they destroyed everything around them, and then themselves. If Rainer detected any sign of mutiny from me, there would be hell to pay. It was only a matter of time before he broke -- I just had to decide where and how far to throw him before it happened.

I was losing control.

###### October 31

"Come, drink -- you don't look like yourself."

A mug approached me across the wood-veined table. I wrapped my hand around it, and felt warmth spreading through my fingertips.

Some kind of music buzzed in the background, just beginning to pluck at my eardrum -- begging me to decipher its suspended rhythm. The more I noticed the more it filled up the room. Italian, I thought. Italian opera, a male or a female vocalist -- couldn't tell which -- it was caught on a single, high, quivering decibel. It stuttered, fuzzed, faded in and out as if tuned incorrectly, or else coming from poor quality speakers. I thought idly how the room needed a new sound system, and a copy of J. Cole's new album.

" _La gazza ladra,_ " She supplied. "Rossini was always the most adept at luring his audience into theta-consciousness."

"The Thieving Magpie."

"That's right -- " She said, with a note of pleasant surprise. "You've heard the opera?"

"No, I just -- I know it."

"Do you know the story? A young woman is put to death for the crime of stealing silver."

"But the magpie stole it."

"Yes."

The stuff in the mug was dark. I couldn't see the bottom, but it had the boiled-bitter aroma of most plant-based teas. The whole room smelled like something once-living, ripped from the earth and hung in the sun to dry for a few days. _That's tea, I guess,_ I thought. 

"You must be hungry."

"Starving," I agreed, eyeballing the dark liquid. I had a vague awareness of my torso and where it was propped against the back of a chair -- I felt the vortex of hunger howling behind my ribs -- but when I looked to my feet I saw only a pool of darkness.

"It will come slowly," Mawal was saying. "Though I am rather impressed by your progress already."

I was gradually becoming aware of another noise beneath the trembling arias of _La gazza ladra_. It was a flutter of liquid, like water dripping from a faucet, or shifting in a bucket. 

I suddenly remembered why I was drinking tea in my neighbor's kitchen. 

"Look," I said. "Putting shit in other people's mailboxes is a federal offense."

I reached into my bag to pull out the book, but yanked my hand back out when pain rippled up my arm. "My hand is bleeding." 

_Why is my hand bleeding?_ I stared at my three foremost knuckles: battered purple, red and yellow with blood and pus. 

###### October 30

I watched Rainer through a haze of smoke. A knife flickered between his hands. It was a six-inch switch-blade, with a loosened clasp -- the way he liked them.

"Our ride is here."

I grunted.

"You ready?" He challenged. 

"You got a plan?"

"The plan is the same as it always is. We show up, we offer the deal, and if they don't accept it, we kick ass. Lose the cops on the subway -- you listenin' to me?"

"What day is it?"

"Thursday. For fuck's sake, Eric. Where's your fucking head at?"

I stared at him through deep, dark eye-sockets. 

He sighed, nostrils flaring. "You really gonna wear that thing? You look like the fucking devil."

"It's almost Halloween. I'm not the devil. I'm a motherfucking Minotaur." 

Rainer spun the knife in his hands and held it out to me by the blade.

"What's this for?"

"It's a fucking shiv. Take it."

I eyed him through the mask. "I'm not _stabbing_ anybody."

"That's why it's for emergencies only," He said, forcing the blade into my hands and then rolling the ski mask over his face. "Let's go."

###### October 31

I pushed the book across the table. 

"Oh, yes -- I thought it might help you."

" _Help_ me?" I said. "It's written in fucking Greek. I can't read it."

"What did you think of the Mindsight?"

"I thought it was bullshit."

###### October 28

"Whatcha readin', Eric?"

I addressed the shadow hovering over my shoulder. "Turn around, and walk away."

"Wait!" I called. "Butters, what day is it?"

"Why, it's Tuesday, Eric!" He chirped. "Happy Tuesday!"

###### October 31

"Perhaps you will find this one more interesting."

A heavy text slid across the wood-veined table to join the steaming mug. I touched its frayed binding with my left hand. The title on the cover had long since worn away. I flicked it open to the title page.

"I can't read this."

"You've begun to explore the Middle World, but there's much to be done in the Lower and Upper Worlds as well."

"Hey, can ya turn off the faucet? I didn't come over here to submit to this fucking Chinese _water torture._ "

"What are you hearing?"

###### October 27

The sun was beginning to thrust its early morning rays into my sanctum. I turned the lamp off over my sheet music, realizing I didn't need it any more. My wall of masks was gray in the morning light, the mouths and eye-holes dripping shadows down the walls. There was a space in the middle; one mask was missing.

A breeze swept in through the cracked window, and the blankets on my bed shifted. I recognized the curl of my best friend's shoulders.

"Jesus Christ," I thought. "Did we sleep together?"

I whirled around when a huffing breath hit my shoulder.

"No," Kenny laughed, upright and awake at my side. "Pretty sure you sat here all night, dude."

I looked back at the bed. It was empty. 

"Did you dream?" I asked.

He sat on the bench. I shifted over. "Yeah. I drowned in the South Park Pond."

"What's happening to us?" I murmured, pressing at the piano keys but hearing no sound.

"I don't know," He said, suddenly distant. When I looked up, McCormick was leaning against the windowsill, greeting the sun's cool rising rays. "There was a magpie out here last night. Better keep an eye on the silver."

###### October 31

"Funny how the intervention of one bird can alter the fates of so many."

"Magpies aren't agents of death; they're just thieves."

"Sure," Mrs. Mawal leveled me with an approving stare. 

"The girl lived. The girl from the opera; I just -- I just remembered. They find the magpie's nest, and the stolen silver."

I finally looked at her. 

"Weren't you, like, pushing sixties last time I saw you?" The woman in front of me was just as cluttered with bangles, rings, and dangling earrings as before -- but she was not the same woman who thrust Worm into my arms on that stormy night. She was the woman from the portrait on the wall: gray eyes marred by a splotch of orange in the right-hand iris, two thin lines bracketing her mouth, mouse-brown hair hanging from the scarf around her head.

###### October 30

They brought dogs.

Even before we arrived at the set meeting place -- a parking lot lit by a single streetlight like a soul caught between worlds -- I heard the tell-tale scuffling and chain-rattling of animals. 

"Bail, man." I advised Rainer.

He didn't listen. The deal fell through, Rainer's boys stepped out of the shadows in dark masks, and they met the North Park goons with wordless grunts and snarls. The parking lot came alive with the dead of night; through the Minotaur's eyes I watched a thousand demons in black masks swarm the pavement, as if they'd been waiting all year for this one violent clash. I pitied them. 

###### October 31

"This is wrong," I said. "This aria is only supposed to go on for like five minutes."

"How long have we been here, Eric?"

I didn't know. The sun was rising outside the window. 

"This is wrong."

"Time is a funny thing, in spaces like these."

In the bottom of the mug, I saw the ragged shape of some wilted flora. I drank the last of the liquid. "Fireweed?"

"An extraordinarily useful herb."

The sound of the rippling fluid was growing louder, more insistent. _Seriously -- what the fuck_ is _that?_

From the floor, it was coming from the floor behind Mawal. I craned, I twisted, but couldn't see. 

###### October 27

"It snowed last night."

I pulled him away from the window. "Let's check it out."

Outside, the air was biting. In the backyard a thin layer of frost blanketed the grass, twisting some of the longer stalks into haunting Tim Burton curls like long white fingers thrusting up out of the frozen earth. Over Kitty's grave, the fireweed had stiffened into bell-covered belts of translucent blue-purple. The covering of snow would disappear as soon as the sun broke the treeline, but for a few moments our shoes could crunch over the grass. 

"You're serious?" He was laughing. 

"It's tradition," I said. 

I didn't have enough piss to work through my last name, so I left it at 'Eric', and stepped back to admire my work. The letters faintly steamed in the brisk dawn air. Kenny's name appeared next to mine in a few barely legible strokes. For a graffiti artist, he didn't have a lot of flare when it came to writing in piss, but I guess it's a tough one to work through all in one go. 

"I haven't done this in years."

"What happened last night?"

There was a rustle of clothing as McCormick presumably put his dick away, then the faint crunch of frost under his boots as he crept closer.

I pushed my fingers under his hood, nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose with my thumb.

"Kyle drew the Death card on you."

"Why didn't you leave?"

"I thought you might need somebody."

###### October 31

"What are you hearing, Eric?"

I felt a swell of something from my stomach, leaned over in the chair and retched onto the floor. I expected to feel the burn on the backs of my teeth but felt no mouth, exactly -- only a new heaviness around my ears. From the new angle, I saw more shadows, squirming on the floor beside Mawal. The longer I looked, the clearer they became. Cats -- a whole horde of cats. And at the center was the flat-faced one with the massive amber eyes, except they weren't amber today, they were red. And that _sound_ \-- 

After blinking its somber eyes at me, the moon-gray cat returned to lapping at the dish on the floor. The cats were drinking from a saucer brimming with blood.

"What are you, exactly?"

The gray in her eyes was becoming more and more transparent in the rising sun. "Something which you also have the potential to be."

"I'm done talking with you, lady."

But when I made to leave I couldn't find my legs; I literally had no conscious awareness of their existence, so the concept of walking merely clattered around in my head for a while before falling out my ear.

I looked back at Mawal. "What do you want from me?"

###### October 30

The first time Rainer threw me in a turf fight, I was 14 years old and nothing more than a big kid. I made it out by being fat, and just plain lucky. But my goal was to get on the money-side of Rainer's business, and I had to start somewhere. Before getting access to any part of the P.C. Middle drug trade, before I could get my hands on any of the product or more importantly, its by-products -- money, power, but mostly, I think, power -- I needed to prove myself. And when I wanted something, when I threw my body and mind into a task, I learned fast. 

After the police took me in and I got expelled from Middle, Rainer didn't call me out to fights any more. But in the past couple months something changed in him -- I was pulled out into the night more and more often, to darker and darker corners, all on his beck and call. Because if I didn't, he would build up a reason for betrayal in his sick mind and go wild chasing after it.

The first rule of fights was not to bring weapons -- they were only good for being used against you and it didn't benefit either gang to leave bodies behind after fights. Still, there were always a few rookies who took baseball bats and knuckle-dusters to turf battles. The goals of these things were unclear to me: neither side gained or lost, the police inevitably showed, and the only thing accomplished was a re-confirmation of an old border. I guess someone's just hoping that one of these days Rainer or someone on the other side will get sloppy, leave too many clues or bodies behind and get cashed by the police.

Rainer had the most to lose -- he was in the rare position of being a non-entity to the police, who still believed they'd busted the ring when they caught me and the faculty at Middle. I was made a face of the operation, while Rainer kept pulling the strings behind the scenes. If a whiff got out that, actually, the trade had not been harmed at all by the legal decapitation of Eric Cartman, then the Park County police would be sniffing around all over again, and Rainer had one big weakness: me. 

My mask was batted off in one of my first few tangles, but the night was dark and the tides of war appeared to be turning in South Park's favor -- groups of Rainer's hooded hires were just getting the upper-hand on North Park's masked and motley crew when a whistle pierced the night and I heard the clattering of chains. A wave of cursewords swept over the parking lot. I struggled in the hold of a man who smelled like piss and beer, probably homeless and obviously hired from the outside to fight on behalf of North Park. I'd tried offering him money but the guy was either manic or just resolute. He had an arm around my neck and one fist hammering at my ribs. His technique was another sign of an outsider; mediocre high school gangs didn't know body-shots were more effective than fucking up your opponent's face. It was all theatre, with them. I'd scraped my head on the pavement falling from a blow to the mouth -- but nothing worse than a split lip and cut eyebrow. By the time we heard the whistle, I was half-blinded by blood and getting the soul beat out of me by a shitty hobo. 

Very abruptly the blows stopped. 

I tore out of the man's hold as he was borne bodily to the pavement by the weight of a barking dog. I dug my toes in and started legging it for the cars. Another thing that got my ass out of trouble in these things was a fairly well-honed survival instinct. I wasn't interested in watching a guy get his face eaten by a dog, anyway. All around the lot fights were dissolving -- members of both sides scattering in the wake of the four or five hell-hounds lancing across the lot. They looked like mastiff- and pitbull-mutts -- illegal offspring of guard dogs bred for the ruthless completion of one or two commands -- and although effective when trained, these ones clearly could not differentiate between South Park's piss-covered hobos and North Park's piss-covered hobos. 

Engines began roaring to life. I was dodging around fenders and blaring horns by the time I neared Rainer's cousin Jungle's van.

It brought me down by the ankle; it was a miracle my brains weren't dashed out on the pavement. Teeth clamped down through my pants with cratering pressure and I kicked at my attacker with the vicious abandon of a creature desperate to survive -- the same Darwinian arrogance that drove people to punch sharks and wrestle bears. And I got lucky; my heel struck the bull-faced animal in the nose and it reeled off of me with a whine, whipping its head around.

The van was loading up a few yards in front of me. Everybody had gathered their wounded and made for their respective vehicles.

I forgot dogs hunted in packs. 

I could see Jung behind the steering wheel when the hot flurry of its hunter's breath hit the back of my neck. In my panic I dropped to my hands and knees as it pounced and soared over my head. When its eyes turned back to me I ducked and rolled, hoping the shadows of Jungle's lifted van would be enough to deter the beasts -- but the underneath didn't provide the protection I imagined, and in an instant the horrifically wrinkled face of the first hound appeared under the chassis, while the toenails of its companion clattered in menacing rhythm around the perimeter. I tried to think but couldn't even breathe -- considered how I'd probably never been scared so utterly shitless in my life. It wasn't even the dogs themselves, just -- waiting. Waiting for their attack, like a worm -- it was the stuff of nightmares, and my head was so filled with nightmares, lately, I didn't think I could cram another one in.

The dog scrabbled under the car on its belly and lunged for my face; it caught my hand in its mouth instead. I sort of roared at it, hoping pain and fury startle it, or give me the opening that would get me out of this, somehow. 

I heard Rainer howling my name. The engine over my head began to shudder and growl. I tried to yell but the hound was upon me -- bored of flaying my hand it went for my throat and I cursed Jung's over-suspended ride; if the fuck knew anything about aerodynamics his van wouldn't be strung up so high over his tires, and I wouldn't have a damn demon nipping at my fucking arteries underneath it. I clutched at the animal's bloodied folds of skin and rolled.

After flinging it away I pulled myself out from under the van just as it accelerated out of park. There was a thump and a yelp, then my vision was overtaken by the second dog. It sprang high into the air and bit my effin' _face_ , it's lower incisor catching under my jaw while its top teeth fumbled over my forehead -- and I realized it was trying to crush my skull, like its distant lupine ancestors. 

Rainer howled for me again. 

Strong forelegs and sharp black nails dug at my layers of clothing. Drool was dripping into my ear. I punched at its head but these dogs were trained to bite and never release. There was only one chance, really. 

It was still trying to get a grip on my head when the mastiff's body began sinking down on top of mine. It's claws scraped half-heartedly at my throat. Then it began licking the blood off my face in long, lazy stripes. Finally, it died. 

By the time I heaved the dog's corpse off of me and dug the knife out of its chest cavity, the parking lot was emptied of cars. I got to my feet and set off for the fence at a limp, purposely letting the image of the dead animal slide from mind. It never looked right -- the way roadkill never looked right. Anything that died to soon or too strange just looked perverted, somehow. Like not natural things, anymore. 

I shook the mixture of drool and blood out of my ear. The sirens were unmistakable now. Soon the white-blue lights would wash out the simmering streetlight and reveal the cost of tonight's tussle. 

I stooped slightly to grab my mask from the pavement by one of its long curving horns. 

At least one mystery was solved: Rainer was definitely trying to have me killed.

###### October 31

"I just want you to listen to me, Eric -- "

"Yeah, get in line -- the last person who said that to me is in a psych ward eating her own shit."

"It is rare that someone with your potential and these specific circumstances arise; these opportunities are, frankly, staggeringly few. _Listen_ to me, and I will help you control the power that is eating you alive -- "

"Boy, you know just what I want to hear, don't you, lady? How many whacked-out teenagers have you tried that line on? Or was it someone who used it on _you_? Did they say you were special, too? Did they promise you power and wealth?"

"I can see you aren't ready yet."

"Nah, you know what, forget me. I just realized I'm not a suitable candidate for your fucking _circus act_. I'm out of here."

She smiled a thin pitying smile across the table. "How are you going to do that? You won't find any doors here."

"I know that," I said. "I might not be smart enough to accept whatever deal you're trying to make here, but I'm smart enough to know the sun don't rise in the west."

As Mawal's eyes left me to glance out the window, I picked up the mug of fireweed and threw it as hard as I could. This aria was over.

###### October 26

I looked down -- in the darkness Worm had crept from his box and approached the only light in the room, the lamp that set my sheet music aglow and blurred the outlines of the white piano keys. The creature stretched up on its back legs and reached up at my piano bench with its big six-fingered hands. Too small and too weak to jump, but Worm's intent was clear in its full moon eyes -- eyes that cracked wider and wider each day. 

I didn't realize what I was doing until Worm's soft folds were beneath my hands and then it was sliding on the bench, underdeveloped claws trying to pluck at the smooth surface for balance. He finally found a grip on my sweats. 

"What're you staring at? All you do is stare at me."

I returned my gaze to the glowing piano keys and addressed the shadows in the room: "What day is it?"

The voice had no tenor, no texture or tone, but I felt sure it was Worm's.

_What if I told you this was a dream, and you have a thousand more to go before you wake up?_

"It's today."

I looked over to the bed. "I thought you left."

"Still here, mostly." He left the bed and drifted over through the dark in a zigzagging pattern that would look bizarre if I didn't know he was avoiding the junk on the floor. Worm was testing the stability of the keyboard. Where his paws fell, sound erupted from the keys. I wrapped a hand around the thing's torso and deposited it back on the floor; it tottered into the shadows without a backwards glance.

"It's growing."

"Maybe it won't always be a monster." _Not like me. I always will be._

The light from the lamp glanced over his steady blue eyes. He sat on the bench. "What've you been doing over here?"

I glanced over to where the book about Mindsight sat on the floor. I remembered the part about Lucid Dreaming. "Trying to lure my brain into theta waves. I heard you can do it with the right music."

"I heard you can do it with peyote." He winked.

I snorted. "Fresh out." 

I was pushing the piano keys without realizing it. An old blues rhythm bled from my fingertips like the greatest irony made manifest; Eric Cartman can _create_. Maybe it was only borrowed blues from an array of mostly-forgotten African American musicians, but somehow these strange stilted melodies sounded right to my ears; they felt as natural beneath my hands as the length of a hockey stick, or Kitty's soft fur.

"What was that?"

" _I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance With You_ ," I said, not even realizing I'd been playing jazz pianist Thelonius Monk's rendition of the old song.

"An old one." I continued. "Still good."

He threw up his hood against the sallow light, and I knew he was suddenly embarrassed, or nervous. I pulled it down again, and he glared at me.

"Don't," I offered. "Not here, at least."

"You know, McCormick, everyone in South Park -- all of Park County, maybe -- has taken a good beating from the ugly stick. But not you, man. Not at all. Sometimes," I breathed, settling my fingers into the last few chords. "I don't think you're from my little world."

My hands finally came to a stuttering halt when my best friend turned my head and pressed his lips to mine. My creaking shadowed solitude yielded to the dead of night, and it was the warmest I'd felt in years. 

###### October 29

"Eric -- Eric! Eric Cartman!"

I jerked out of my stupor, looked up from the book, and found myself in Sociology class. The lines on Mr. Paradise's forehead jumped and jostled with each other for dominance.

I grunted interrogatively. 

"Your car is illegally parked," He said. "Please go handle it and return to class. Promptly."

"Uhh -- what day is it?"

The shadows of my classmates shimmered, shifted, and snickered.

"Wednesday," Mr. Paradise replied. "Just because you can't remember your name, or the date, doesn't give you an excuse to forget where to park."


	12. Chapter 12

### The Fool

Kenny approached the barn along a furrow of fragrant, slightly moist cuttings of corn, cane, and weed. The trail was marked with scarred, scowling pumpkins and the tell-tale tracks of rocks kicked and heels slipped in the mud. Typically, Murphy's barn held an array of farming tools, and perhaps -- if the weather dipped below zero -- a few of the more finicky animals unsuited to spending the night at pasture. But this Halloween the Murphy barn stooped over Park County High's entire sophomore class, give or take a dozen nosy upper-classmen and unpatriotic no-shows. 

By the time he left the path, music and other sounds of activity within the hive became clearer. Kenny's headache turned, chattered, and began churning in his skull like a hamster in a wheel. The wind whistled through the trees and over the fields; it rattled the front doors, and for a moment a lantern-like glow was emitted from the inside. When the wind drew back to inhale, the barn settled once more against the dark pocket sky.

When the front doors came into full view, a shriek ripped from the hayloft. Kenny sighed, feeling distant -- numb even to his headache -- and thought of dropping in on the Murphys, maybe thank them for letting a bunch of teenage homewreckers take over their barn for the biggest night of the year. But it was pushing 10 o'clock; the couple were probably in for a fitful night of sleep without the additional disturbance of Kenny and his migraine knock-knocking. 

Instead of going straight to the front doors, he skirted the perimeter of the barn to come at it from the side. He didn't feel like meeting the huddled the shapes lurking outside the doors. The reception committee, no doubt. Every year there was some humiliating challenge at the front door to buy entrance to the party -- or, as was the case last year, a series of infuriatingly well-placed trip wires leading up the path to the gorge. 

Ambrose was roped loosely to a twisted old apple tree alongside the barn. At the rustle of Kenny's footsteps, the ever-vigilant two-ton steer chuffed and shifted his hooves where he stood over the fallen leaves, cane stalks, and molding apples. Kenny murmured his hello to the old bull, took the sharp-toothed ground rake from where it leaned against the barn, and began scraping the older cane stalks into a pile at the field's edge. When most of the crushed stalks were removed, he plunged the teeth of the rake into a pile of fresh ones and dragged them over to the tree. Ambrose watched him work with his big slow eyes, all but obscured by shadow in the starless night. 

Finally Kenny leaned the rake against the side-paneling and set about kicking some of the moldier apples into the brush while Ambrose hooved through his new feed. 

"You this year's challenger?"

"Nah," came a voice. "I'm here to take people back to the door, should they accidentally get lost on the way in. President's orders."

A cloaked figure took shape in the shadows around the twisted tree, a long scythe held cross-wise across its shoulders. Kenny rolled his eyes at the uncreative costume -- last year's list of prohibited costumes had included grim reapers (and Master Chief), but this year's rules had been relaxed to maximize attendance. At least the scythe looked legitimate. 

"That you, Spektor?"

"What gave it away?" replied the laughing voice. "My uncanny resemblance to Death?"

 _You wouldn't know death if it looked you in the face and ripped the soul from your bones._ Kenny thought.

Ryan Spektor was one of those "smart" kids from Middle Park who hadn't been shoved into enough lockers when he was young, so he grew up and entered high school with enough self-confidence in the reservoir to get along with the South Park crowd. He wasn't half-bad looking, either, so that helped. 

With a sound like grinding gravel a sparkler burst to life between himself and Death. The riotous white light engulfed them in a fishbowl of false daytime, and Kenny saw Spektor take down his hood, offering him the sparkler. Kenny took it, swung some experimental circles. By the tree, Ambrose snorted, as if unimpressed by their mortal fascination with flame -- the silhouette of his horns brought to mind the vesper of a half-forgotten dream. Spektor swayed in Kenny's vision like a king cobra hypnotized by the sputtering light. His eyes turned liquid hazel as the sparks spat and shot between them. Spektor's hair was the same color as his sister's, caught somewhere between blond and brown like a lot of people of Russian descent; but where his sister's heather hair fell bone-straight to her shoulders, Spektor's curled tightly over his skull, stark against his pale skin. 

"I thought it might be you, McCormick," He said. "Who are you this year? Kate Middleton?"

"Do I look like Kate fucking Middleton? When's the last time Kate Middleton wore a bloody wife-beater?"

It was a running joke that Kenny dressed as a different princess every year for Halloween, but this year he'd gone back to basics with a pair of old clawed Ripper gloves, a hockey mask in the style of Friday the 13th, and some modest fake blood. It was overall a half-baked conglomeration of mismatched serial killer attire, and if Cartman was here he would probably take the piss out of him for it. Kenny shook the sparkler again and the long nails sticking out of his knuckles clanged together.

Spektor laughed and began leading Kenny around to the back of the barn with a hand on his shoulder. "Low-budget Halloween this year, I see. But bloody serial killer is so... _ubiquitous_."

 _Ubiqutous?_ "Dude, _Death_ is ubiquitous."

"Yeah," He admitted. "Sweet sickle, though, right? The old man Murphy let me borrow it."

"So in other words, you put on a black robe for Halloween. Who's got the low budget?" Kenny was too used to batting away low-income jokes to let one from Ryan fucking Spektor slide by so easily.

His voice took on a mournful tone. "I'm getting old, man. I just cant justify this kind of stuff to myself anymore -- we gotta think about _student loans_ \-- "

"Exactly," Kenny said. "You've got two years left for excusable recklessness -- why waste it worrying about adulthood?"

Spektor laughed again. "Excusable recklessness, I like that. You're smart, McCormick."

"Seriously, man. Fake blood and silly string will make you a hundred times happier than college, and you only gotta drop a paycheck or two."

The sparkler sputtered out, plunging the two of them into darkness for a few moments before the path opened out and they arrived at the back door of the barn, where a floodlight lit up a clearing of hard-packed dirt and the crouching specters of Murphy's truck, the tractor, and a few other vehicles. Kenny recognized Craig's step-mom's Lexus. 

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Stan said if you showed up to bring you to the back. I gotta head back to my post, but do me a favor, will ya? If you see Crash -- " Spektor forced something into Kenny's gloved hand. "Give him this."

Death melted back into the night, whistling a lilting tune and swinging the long sickle in lazy whorls. 

"Kenny!" Stan's voice preceded the additional weight over his shoulders by less than a half-second. Stan was always happiest on Halloween, it seemed. "You're so late, man -- "

"I've got a headache, Stan."

"Dude, no -- " The weight vanished and his friend moved to stand in front of him. "You still good for phase two, you think?"

"Phase two?"

Stan smiled wide and began pulling Kenny over to one of the pick-up trucks in the line. "Uncle Jimbo just got back from the Four Corners -- I had him pick up a few things."

Kenny chuckled -- Stan's Uncle Jimbo was a true red-neck honkie, but he'd always been good to Stan. Without kids of his own, Jimbo took great pleasure in spoiling his brother's son, especially when it came to doing things that Stan's own parents were too strict on. It was Jimbo who took them out camping in the brush when they were little, Jimbo who brought them to the shooting ranges to "learn how to bag 'em", and of course; it was Jimbo who delivered the illegal fireworks. 

"Holy shit," were the only words that came to mind.

Stan was grinning wolfishly and bobbing his head up and down like the worst Vulcan ever. He pushed up the sleeves on his Science blue Star Trek uniform and put his hands on his hips. "You can check the labels -- "

"'Shoots flaming balls,'" Kenny read, somewhat buoyed by Stan's overwhelming enthusiasm. "That's it, man. That's what you want."

"Nothing lame, I swear. More'n half of 'em are whistlers -- "

"But, we _can't_ light these up here, dude -- "

"Hey, have a little faith in me. I wouldn't do that to Murph. We already have a launch pad set up on the border of Jenkins' land."

"You gonna drive _all_ these people over there?"

"It's like a five-minute glide across the ice, homie -- trust me, I've been back and forth like a hundred times today. We've got a half-dozen PVC pipes hammered in the ground over there; should make for a good show over the ice. Plus, it's perfect set-up for phase three."

"Phase _three_ \-- "

"I hope you brought your night-creeping game," Stan said, looping an arm over Kenny's shoulders.

"What? No, man -- I don't think -- "

"It's fine!" Stan rushed. "The headache don't clear up by then, it's no big deal. But dude -- "

His blue eyes are cragged with fog-gray and utterly resolute in the harsh floodlights over the barn door. "This is the biggest night-creeping tournament we've ever organized. The betting pool itself is -- it's fuckin' _staggering_."

"And the police? I suppose you've got them all gagged and blindfolded at the station?"

The class president spread his hands with a smirk. "That's where you come in, Ken. I want you to set the biggest firestorm you can with that shit -- " He jerked his head at the fireworks. "Draw the police over here, and meanwhile we haul ass and move phase three to the other side of town. Murphy said he'd keep the cops talking as long as he could."

"Stan -- you've got this city on flock." His plan was crazy, but it was Halloween, so if the cops were really spread just thin enough, and the timing was _perfect_ , it might work.

Spock rubbed at the back of his neck, abashed -- glowing -- and amended his positive outlook just slightly: "Transitions are key, of course."

"Hey, uh -- " He suddenly steered Kenny a little deeper into the shadows between the cars. "Hang on, just wanna make sure that sneaky bastard Spektor isn't still hanging around -- "

"Okay -- Kenny, you haven't seen Cartman recently, have you?"

Kenny shook his head, kicked at the dirt. "No."

"You haven't talked to him since you left Sunday night?"

"No. I tried talking to him a few times this week, but just got these vacant stares."

"Same. I was hoping he would show -- it's not like him not to make an appearance on Halloween."

They shared a moment of loaded silence.

"Listen," Stan said finally, squeezing him around the shoulders briefly before moving to stand in front of him once more. "Axel came by earlier."

"I wouldn't tell anyone this, but," He continued in a conspiratorial tone. "Apparently some shit went down by the train tracks last night -- couple kids were hospitalized -- the cops are playing it as a random assault, but the word is the North-South turf wars are heating up again. Yeah, there are muggings and stabbings and shit on the news every morning, but nobody wanted to put a name to it 'cause Cartman was supposed to be... "

"Out of the game." Kenny finished.

"You didn't see him in class today?"

"No."

"Thought not. Here, Axel sent me this." Stan held up his phone.

On the screen was a snapshot of the upper corner of someone's forehead and the corner of an eye. Kenny instantly recognized the hairline. The flesh over the eyebrow was rent wide open and crowded by small puncture wounds; any hunter could detect the signs of an animal attack from the alignment of the wound -- he'd seen deer skulls cracked from brow to jaw-bone in the same pattern dozens of times: that meant canine. The ragged gash was a shimmering red but for the three black stitches looping through it. The surrounding skin was already turning a sick purple-blue. Another cut through the eyebrow was just visible in the shot. Kenny wanted to puke. 

"Axel's handiwork?" He said, gesturing numbly at the black loops.

"Dunno." Stan said grimly, pulling the phone away to stare at it some more himself. "Pretty gnarly, huh."

"Stan, tell me you didn't put that on Instagram."

"What -- _no_ , of course not." 

He tucked his phone away. "I, uhh... I mighta sent it to Craig."

Kenny was too strung out to be furious. He mimicked his best friend unconsciously, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Why the fuck would you do that, man?"

"Yo, don't worry -- Tucker's a bitch, but he's totally harmless. And I was sick and tired of listening to him talk trash all the time -- "

Stan's eyes turned hard and distant. "I swear, if Craig was anything more than a _gnat_ on Cartman's radar, dude, he'd be dead meat saying that shit -- sometimes I gotta remind him what a bad-ass he is now, you know? Cartman could set this town on fire _in his sleep_."

Frustrated and deeply uneasy, Kenny was nevertheless touched by the class president's staunch defense of their old friend. "I get it, man. Pretty sure it'll only fuel more rumors, but... I guess I understand where you're coming from. Fuck Craig, anyway."

Stan led the way back into the floodlight and plucked open the back door to the barn. He stepped over the threshold into the warm glow of the party, spread his arms and turned to grin at Kenny like Willy fuckin' Wonka showing off his blood-spattered chocolate factory. "All this could be yours," He joked. 

"The piñatas are a nice touch."

"Ax brought 'em over. He jumped out real quick though, said he had some other shit. So -- short version of the grand tour: we've got a few card tables here in the back; most of the food is up front -- the girls made fuckin' _caramel apples_ , bro -- and Red's doing some, like, Henna bullshit over there -- "

Another shriek sounded from the upper level.

"Oh! Dude -- you gotta check out the haunted hayloft. We pulled out every trick in the book this year; there's not a lot of space to work with so we had to get creative. Butters is playing mad-surgeon up there, snapping bloody carrots -- it's actually fucking terrifying."

"I might check it out later, man -- I just don't have the steam."

"Right! Headache -- well, if you wanna chill somewhere, Kyle's on fortune-telling duty by the ladder. Oh, one more thing; can I see your hand?"

Stan took Kenny's wrist, uncapped a black marker with his teeth and drew a big 'X' just visible over his Ripper glove. 

"Did I not meet the _height requirement_?" Kenny asked drily. 

"Sorry man, no keg for you. I'm not letting any of the night-creepers drink. But go grab something to eat -- Oy!" He broke off suddenly, eyes narrowing at a point over Kenny's shoulder. " _No bottle rockets!_ Fuck, sorry man, duty calls."

Stan slapped him on the shoulder and moved through the milling high schoolers toward the front of the barn. 

Kenny watched his friend go and then became a shadow. He slunk along the walls unnoticed among legions of Leatherfaces, Pyramid-heads, Rippers, and a wide assortment of classic villains. He lingered for a while by one of the card tables; it was taken over by a group of five football players dressed as Trojan warriors, but they grew too loud and rowdy for his taste, and he drifted on. Eventually he sniffed out a conversation between monsters that were all familiar to him. 

"Hey, Jimmy."

"Oh, hey -- " Kenny tipped up his mask. "Kenny! How did you know it was m-m-me?"

"Jim," Clyde said. "That's like asking how you knew it was Token."

Clyde blocked a one-armed shove from Token and brought his cup to his lips with one massive furred claw. Beneath his other arm was a snarling werewolf head. The chocolate brown fur of the costume was a near match for Clyde's own hair. Kenny thought it was overall a good look for him.

"No, it was good, Jimmy -- I really thought you had chainsaws for hands." Kenny offered, plucking at one of the bike chains that encircled Jimmy's crutches.

"You just get here?" 

"Yeah," He answered. "Cut the president's grand tour a little short, I think."

"You g-g-ge-get a load of Wendy's c-costume?"

Clyde rolled his eyes and added: "You can't possibly've missed the chick in the bathing suit calling herself Lady Liberty."

"'Wendy,' I said to her. 'I can almost s-s-see your tits.' 'It's pop art,' she says."

"You know she just started going with Stan again." Clyde said. He elbowed Token: "Missed your shot, dude."

"Hardly my fault," Blade replied, eyes hidden behind sharply angled black sunglasses. "Their relationship status changes every week."

"Look at it this way, brother -- you only have to wait another fifteen minutes for the next bus."

"Wait," Jimmy interjected. "You're not actually planning to m-m-move in on that?"

"Sure he is," Clyde responded for his friend. "Likes a girl with a big mouth. The nice tits are a bonus."

"Shut up, man." Token said. "I think she's trying to make a point -- "

"Yeah, that she's got nice tits -- "

"Sure, that might be what it looks like to people who only think with their _dick_ \-- "

"Wh-wh-what's it look like to you?"

"It _looks_ like a statement about the taboo nature of femininity in a supposedly free society -- "

A mighty groan rose from the group and popcorn was thrown. 

"Christ," the headless werewolf chuckled, releasing Blade from a playful headlock. "You really like her. Alright, man. It's cool. But maybe save it tonight -- Stan seems pretty happy."

"He's always happy this time of year," Kenny said, having a difficult time pretending to be interested in their conversation. "He likes doing things like this for other people."

"He sure throws a g-g-good party."

"Dynamite," Clyde agreed, picking up his cup again. 

Suddenly a World War II soldier in a blood-spattered gas mask loomed over Clyde's shoulder and pushed into the conversation. 

Craig pulled off the gas mask with a long-suffering groan. Deep lines were carved in his face where the mask had settled, giving Tucker's icy blue eyes a hollow, more douchey look than usual. "Fuck, it's hot up there. I have to take five, at least."

"How's it going up there?"

"Not as good as last year's," He said, pulling a cigarette from one of the many pockets on his military fatigues. He flicked his lighter and took a few puffs of acrid tobacco smoke. "Then again, the haunted walk at the gorge almost did the haunting for us."

"Oh, yeah, that was so f-f-f-fuu-fucking sweet," Jimmy agreed. "Stan's w-w-werewolf attacks were really well orchestrated."

Kenny remembered that gag. He had played victim that year -- screaming in the dirt while Stan pulled reams of intestines from his abdomen, slick with corn-syrup blood. "That was good stuff."

"Don't forget the Trial at the Rope Swing!" said Token. "That scared the crap out of me."

" _Yees_ ," Clyde clapped once in appreciation. "That was fucking perfect. We spent days making scarecrow bodies to hang in the trees. They had to have that drowned-quality -- "

"Kyle made a t-t-terrific judge."

"Cartman was a born executioner."

"Who ended up taking the fall, again?"

"Who d'you think?" Craig muttered, dark eyebrows pinched. "Only McCormick was crazy enough to jump the gorge in the middle of the night like that. Nobody else would do it."

"Certainly made for a good show."

"That reminds me," Tucker said, taking off one of his costume gloves to fish his phone out of another pocket. "You guys see this picture yet?"

After a glance at the familiar snapshot of gore, Jimmy whistled. "Is that Cartman? Looks like he's doing some serious m-m-make-up, this year."

"This isn't make-up, fool," Craig snapped around his cigarette. "It's an ass-kicking -- "

"In what world is that an _ass-kicking_ , man?" said Clyde, craning his neck and jabbing a finger at his friend's phone screen. "If that's real -- this guy was savaged."

"Three stitches," Craig was muttering. "That's nothing."

"What d'you think happened?"

"Looks like Jimmy had at 'im with one of those saws," Clyde chuckled morbidly.

"Maybe it was a f-f-fight after the hockey game?" 

" _I'll_ tell you what happened," Craig interrupted. "There was a turf battle last night by the tracks. They're saying the border wars are heating up again. The cops found a bunch of dogs and a dead hobo at the scene. The fat asshole must've made it out with a bite."

"Who told you that?"

"Heard it from Pat."

"Pat O'Connell?"

"His dad's the North Park chief of police."

"Wait, I heard about that attack on the news -- " Token said. "They're calling it an assault. Apparently a couple of students are in the hospital."

"You said there were dogs?" Kenny said.

Craig's cold eyes slid over to appraise the masked killer lurking on the edges of their conversation. "Oh, McCormick -- I didn't see you there. Have you seen this?"

Kenny shook his head at the picture. "I don't know anything about it."

Craig's eyes were hard steel. He took a pull from the cigarette and french-inhaled the last vapors. "Figures fat-ass wouldn't tell his own best friend. But -- doesn't exactly have friends, does he?" 

Kenny was fantasizing about grabbing the git by his throat when the X-Men's Quicksilver ran up on their conversation.

"Need reinforcements for the hayloft," He said, lifting his goggles over his forehead.

"Not now, Crash," Tucker grouched. "I'm fuckin' wiped."

"Can't wait!" Crash said. "We got a line down the ladder -- !"

"Alright, guess I'm up, then." Clyde said, taking his mask in hand and becoming a werewolf once more.

Before he could leave, Craig stopped him with a slap to his chest. "Wait -- you got my M80s?"

"You got my _twenty bucks_?" the wolf growled.

"Not tonight! I wanna play cards."

Clyde rolled his eyes but dug a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket to push into Craig's chest as he made for the haunted hayloft.

"Wait," Kenny stopped Quicksilver with a clawed hand. "Spektor said to give this to you."

Crash took the wrapper, unfurled it, scanned its contents, and -- because Crash is Crash is Crash -- he ran off.

 

###### 

"Hey, Kyle." Kenny said, batting aside the dark curtains that separated the fortune-telling booth from the main floor of the barn. "You stuck here all night? I thought I'd see you at the card table, but its packed with togas from the football team."

He sat down on a hay bale across from the low folding table. The bale was covered demurely in red velvet, but some of the longer twigs pricked uncomfortably at his ass. 

Kyle leaned forward out of the shadow with a sigh. "I'm not allowed near the card table this year. Something about checks and balances -- it was the only way the others would agree to throw in for a pot. I offered to be dealer but even that was unsatisfactory. Anyway, Stan was set on this fortune-telling idea. I think I've read every girl in the sophomore class, and it's probably not even 10 o'clock."

A few bangs and a muffled scream echoed from the hayloft, cutting through the thump of the main floor speakers. 

"And where'd _this_ come from?" Kenny asked, eyeing up the massive piece of glass on the floor beside the table. "You've been holding out on us."

It was the most ornate bong Kenny had ever seen -- a true dragon among glassware: it had at least two filter chambers, a nail-pin bowl, and a long plaited neck-piece; the whole thing probably stood about two feet tall. It even held colored ribbons of glass along its curves and whorls, blue and violet with occasional strands of green.

"That's the trophy for tonight's phase three. We all pooled in for it. Beautiful, huh?"

"Stan thought of everything, this year." Kenny said generously, knowing nothing cheered Kyle more than praise for his best friend.

"I know." Kyle said, glowing with pride. "We've never organized night-creeping on this scale before -- if it works out, and everyone keeps to their assigned neighborhoods, it'll be the biggest Halloween night ever. Public disturbance should be minimal."

"Right -- monkeying around in people's backyards in the dead of night is totally not disturbing."

"Only sloppy night-creepers are really in danger of getting caught; the real game here will be speed."

"Where are we holding this grand prix, again?"

"The Tree-streets, on the other side of town."

"The _Tree-streets_? Why?"

"They're perfect -- just think about it: close housing, lots of fenced-backyards all in perfect rows. Plus there's a new law that dogs can't be chained up outside at night."

"It's gotta be one of the dumpiest parts of town though, dude. Kinda dangerous out there."

"Leave the worrying to us, Kenny. Stan's been planning this since the semester started; we've got about a dozen fall-back plans -- "

The sound of a fuzzing speaker cut him off, and Kyle paused to grab a walkie-talkie from the floor and adjust the channels. " -- Not to mention the communication network is tighter than ever. You been upstairs yet?" 

"I got a headache." Kenny said. "Sounds like a scream, though."

"It's pretty good."

Kenny clasped his claws behind his neck and yawned. "Good turn-out this year, as always. Stan makes a good Spock."

"He was bummed about it, actually," Kyle chuckled. "Wanted to go scary this year -- but we decided the class president and head of reception shouldn't be bleeding from the eyes. By the way -- you happen to see Wendy out there?"

"No, but I bumped into Craig and his little homies," Kenny found himself bitching. "Man, he has such a hair up his ass about Cartman -- half-expect he wants to bone him."

"Look at it from Craig's perspective -- " Kyle leaned forward over his folding table and picked up the deck of Tarot cards. "He's always competed with Cartman for title of school's biggest asshole, but he's kind of out of his league." 

Kenny snorted his agreement.

"It must be frustrating," Kyle continued, mixing the cards idly. "Craig's been the same motherfucker since 2001, but Cartman -- well, now Cartman runs a gang and has the whole world talking."

"Cartman doesn't run a fucking gang." Kenny laughed.

"Coulda fooled me."

Kenny realized with a jolt that Kyle didn't _know_. Kyle -- the smartest guy he knew -- was just as ignorant as the Park County police when it came to understanding the balance of power in the South Park drug trade.

Kenny had only figured it out his freshman year, almost eleven months after the fact. All it took was the accidental poisoning of Eric at that block party in North Park, and after that, things started to click in to place; it was like he'd been watching black-and-white frames of a silent movie, and suddenly the sound came on and he started to arrange the disconnected scenes into a story. Cartman hadn't touched a gram of cocaine in his entire life; probably the first time he'd experienced it had been in North Park smoking that laced marijuana. After that, it became obvious: Rainer Fichte was the pair of black hands behind the curtain; Rainer was the one conducting the deal that night in North Park; and Rainer was the one left unscathed after the police excavation of P.C. Middle. 

Rainer's interest in Cartman had started to become clear, too: in middle school Cartman was a fat braggart -- he conducted himself as the swaggering lackey of a drug dealer because it was exactly what he wanted, but not who he was. The relatively small-time South Park drug lord had no use for Eric until the police were tipped off; and suddenly the arrogant kid who simply _knew too much_ but had no part in the business became the perfect scapegoat before the law.

Sitting in the dim light beneath the ladder to the screaming hayloft, Kenny gradually came to a new, more startling realization: if Kyle hadn't known -- if Kyle believed Cartman responsible for peddling hard drugs inside the public school system... he couldn't decide whether Kyle was over- or under-estimating Cartman's abilities. Both, perhaps.

"Did you see the piñatas?" Kenny quested, determined to test his developing theory before drawing any more hard conclusions. 

"How could I miss them?" Kyle said. "A van full of thugs came by earlier and dropped them off. It was that kid from Middle. You guys call him Axel."

Kenny grasped the hook and pulled. "Whadda _you_ call him?"

"I don't know him."

"Well you know _somethin'_ about him, else you wouldn't look so constipated every time he's brought up."

Kyle exhaled through his nostrils and put the cards down to cross his arms. "I only knew him as Alex Medina. Ike's friend."

"I thought Ike was going to that prep school up in Jeff?"

"He is." He confirmed, voice grim. "They didn't meet through school."

Kenny arranged the puzzle pieces in a way that made sense of his friend's obvious disapproval. "Ike bought from him." 

"I was obviously pissed, when I found out."

The last piece fell into place, and Kenny's theory became terrible fact -- it sounded through his pounding head like a bell tolling death.

"Kenny? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," He gritted. "Headache, that's all."

When he blinked open his eyes, he was staring at his boots on the hay-strewn floor. He lifted his head from his knees with great effort.

"Hey, why don't you do a reading? I'm here, might as well."

"You sure?"

Kenny shrugged.

Kyle picked up the cards and began shuffling again. "I've been doing question-based readings -- probably had half the sophomore class in here already. You wouldn't believe the stupid shit people wanna know."

"That reminds me," He continued. "Clyde wants you to step off Vanessa."

Kenny half-heartedly searched his scattered mental filing system, but in the drawer labeled 'shit not related to Cartman' he came up with nothing. "Vanessa -- ?"

Kyle leveled him with a hard stare.

"You gotta help me out here, man."

" _Vanessa_ , the girl who sits next to you in Economics _every fucking day_?" He prompted. "Draws hearts on your arm for 45 minutes?"

"Oh. Well, fuck -- what's Clyde blame me for? He's got his own game, doesn't he?"

Kyle shook his head. "I couldn't tell you, man. When Stan gave me this job, I didn't expect to be relationship counseling. Anyway, you got a question for me?"

"Do the three card thing."

"You sure?"

"Why you keep askin' me that? I'm sure, alright? Let's kill some time. Maybe I'll find out something I don't already know."

"Your claws are shaking."

Kenny pulled his trembling hands form the table and leaned them back on the hay bale. "Go on."

"Ready?"

" _Go on_ , I said."

"Then here we go." Kyle said, and flipped the first card. "For your past: the Fool."

Kenny huffed a dry laugh. On the card was a young man poised to step over a cliff; he held a rose in one hand and a small burden on a stick in the other. A dog nipped at his heels.

"The Fool is often misunderstood as a careless or unintelligent figure, but I think its meaning is more subtle than simple recklessness. The Fool is the card numbered _zero_ \-- it is neither the beginning nor the end, because in the language of Tarot, you begin your journey through life as the Fool and -- if you're wise -- you understand that you remain a fool until death.

"There's a holiday from the ancient Roman period, a festival called Saturnalia -- it was a celebration of chaos and misrule; for one day of bacchanalia, all of society's rules were overturned; masters provided table-service for their servants, all laws were discarded, and each town was run by a fool whose every order had to be obeyed. After the festival, the fool was turned back out into the streets -- but I think this is the most interesting part -- "

Kyle pointed to the fool's burdens. "See this? The rose, the rose of Truth. Society acknowledges the Fool, might even accept the benefits of chaos and misrule, but ultimately rejects him. He walks the edge of the cliff, the boundary between life and death, and yet bears the burden of Truth; the meaning is this: in the end, it is the fool who truly understands life."

"Jesus, Kyle," Kenny swore. "You _are_ good at this."

"I just try to tailor the readings to what I think people need to hear, and pick out all the relevant shit. I think the Fool is a good card for you, Kenny."

"I think you overestimate me, then."

"Ready for your present?"

Kenny nodded him on.

"The Eight of Swords. Reversed."

Kyle's eyes flicked up to his. "This isn't a good card."

"Just -- just tell me what I'm dealing with, here." Kenny said, looking at the card in front of him. It certainly didn't look like good news.

"The Eight of Swords represents doubt, and fear. You can see the woman is blindfolded and trapped, surrounded by swords. Reversed, the swords fall away, but she is still blindfolded, and now, she's lost the use of her feet. This is a more dangerous situation, I think; before, she might've broken free on her own power, but now -- her fear is more paralyzing than the ring of swords. The danger is illusory -- it's all in her mind -- but she can't break free."

 _Perfect,_ Kenny thought. _I'm a blindfolded damsel immobilized by my own madness._

"Kenny? How you doing?"

"Fine. It's kinda hot in here."

Kyle dug around behind him and tossed over a bottle of water. Then he flipped the last card.

"Finally, for your future... the Hanged Man."

Kenny's blood ran cold.

"Don't look so freaked," Kyle said, chuckling. "This isn't a card about death."

"That's a pity."

Kyle's dark eyebrows drew together. "Kenny -- let me ask you this; if I gave you a choice between life and death, right now, which would you choose?"

"I don't know."

Kyle stared at him for a while, but when Kenny failed to offer anything else, he sighed. "That's what scares me."

"Had any dreams lately?" He asked suddenly.

Kenny wondered absent-mindedly when his dreams had become the favorite topic of conversation -- he'd had them for as long as he could remember, but they'd previously only been good for a laugh, to his friends. _Did you dream?_ came Eric's voice, stuck in that low register of apathy, his red eyes shaded with some indiscernible expression.

"I had a dream I was dying in the Devil's arms," Kenny laughed bitterly. "To be honest, Kyle, I don't even know if I'm awake right now."

"Are you serious? What's going on with you, man?"

"I mean -- I have memories from shit I haven't done; like I know what I did, actually _did_ , every day -- but there are these other wrinkled moments, too. I remember leaving Cartman's house Sunday night; and I remember staying, too. I remember crashing my truck with my foot on the gas; I remember drowning beneath the ice of the Pond -- but I'm here, you know? I'm losing the line between dream and reality."

"Maybe the line isn't as clear as you think."

Kenny looked up with a questioning stare.

"Ken, what d'you know about Einstein's Theory of Relativity?"

"Is this really the time for physics?"

"We're going to have to get into metaphysics, actually," Kyle said, reaching underneath the table and beginning to root around in his bag.

Kenny groaned, but Kyle had already yanked out an old Geometry quiz and flipped it over to the blank side, laying it on the table in front of them.

"Einstein's theory explains everything in our universe almost to a tee. With it, we can trace the complexities of life back to the simplest building blocks of matter, and energy: bosons, electric charges. According to the theory, the ruling principle of our reality depends on -- "

Kyle drew a horizontal line on the paper; beneath it he wrote 'Potential.' "Potential -- this you already know. An object might have the _potential_ to move, but in order to realize that potential, _probability_ must also exist."

He drew another horizontal line, paralllel to the first, and above it wrote 'Probability.'

"Neither of these concepts can exist without the other, right? Without probability, there couldn't possibly be any potential -- no potential; no probability. They can only exist in constant exchange."

In the blank space between the two lines, he wrote: 'Reality'.

"Our temporal reality -- what we experience as the _present_ \-- is the result of a constant exchange of energies between these fields: potential and probability. If Einstein's theory holds, our path through time and space, our history, is the path which yields the greatest energetic output. Are you still with me?"

"I think so."

"So our temporal present, right now, is everything that is material to us. It is, simply, _reality_. Out of a shit-ton of possibilities and potential futures, this is the path history has set us on -- it is the 'winning' branch of space-time, so to speak. What happens to the losing branches? All of the futures that just might've happened but didn't meet the Einstein requirement? Both our pasts and futures are still composed of a myriad of tiny threads, every decision, action, every thought that might've led -- or might lead -- to a different reality. These loser threads become non-material history.

"It's called temporal distillation; it's the reason we all experience time as a single, straightforward arrow from the past to the future. Kenny -- I think you've been experiencing the lost threads."

"Are you telling me I've become _unstuck in time?_ " Kenny said. "What is this -- _Slaughterhouse-Five_?"

"It's a little different from that, but, basically -- yeah -- "

"But _why?_ Why _me?_ "

Kyle shrugged. "Sorry, I can't answer that. I'm just the card dealer."

Kenny resisted the urge to drop his head back into his hands. Instead, he eyed the final card in the row of three: the Hanged Man. On it was the fool character from before, hung upside down against a tree. His expression was peaceful.

"What's this about, then?" Kenny asked, gesturing to the card.

"Oh, right -- the Hanged Man. This card signifies a time when you're feeling most vulnerable or introspective -- suspended, almost, by deep thought. The ruling planet is Neptune, which in Tarot represents spirituality, dreams, or psychic abilities. The Hanged Man has opened himself up to new ideas, or at the very least -- something strange, that he hadn't thought of before. This is the card of new perspectives."

"Thanks, Kyle. The optimistic note was a nice touch -- I'm sure you could've turned that one into another metaphysical horror story if you really wanted to."

Kyle tried to appear offended but a smile pulled at his lips before long and he laughed. He wore two and a half miserable years of braces for those teeth. "I swear," He said. "I don't plant cards and I don't make this shit up. Also, it was nice to talk about something that isn't our classmates' mundane love lives."

"God, tell me about it -- they tell me I'm quiet but I just can't find a shit to give."

"You know, it's funny because -- you used to be all about girls, man," Kyle said. "You were getting head in parking lots while we were all still warming up to the idea of having pubic hair."

"What can I say? I'm hairy." Kenny dodged, going for cocky and falling somewhere between self-deprecating and threatened. 

"I'm serious, though. Like _what_ interests you?"

Kenny couldn't fabricate a single believable response in his head. There was nothing. He was nothing. Life, death? They meant nothing. For the past year he had been swimming, his sleep cluttered with death and his waking hours plagued by migraines; it was as if there were a new emptiness in his skull -- not his skull, his fucking _soul_ but Kenny just couldn't take himself seriously enough to use that kind of language -- he was aware of a hollowness where something once was. Without that piece, he was something lesser than Kenny McCormick.

"You seen Cartman lately?" He asked, voice suddenly weak.

Kyle snorted, as if disappointed in having a hunch confirmed. "I thought you seemed oddly taken with him lately."

"What -- ? I mean, come on, dude -- he's sick -- "

"He's _not_ sick," Kyle said. "He's experiencing guilt and yes, maybe even some kind of compassion, but these emotions are so foreign to him his body is treating them like a disease. He's not sick; he's just an incurable asshole."

"No," He found himself saying, shaking his head. "You don't know him -- there's more happening here; I think he might need help."

"What do _you_ need?"

"I -- "

The faraway upturned comb of blue mountain range. The silhouette of Ambrose's horns in the simmering light. "I need him. I need him a lot closer than he is now. I don't know how else to say it."

Kyle leaned back into the long striped shadows beneath the ladder and scrubbed at his loose red curls. "I just don't get it. He's not... he's not _good_ to you, man."

"He said I was perfect."

"Dude -- he was baked half- _blind_ when he said that!"

"I know. It's complicated." Kenny said, sighing. He wasn't sure he could explain it properly. "You remember Stan's Halloween party at the basin last year? How we rigged the entire path up the gorge, then had that grand finale at the rope swing? You were -- "

"The judge," Kyle said. "Yeah, I remember -- the Trial at the Rope Swing, Stan and I wrote the damn screenplay together, of course I haven't forgot. That was a good year -- the trials really got people going."

"Cartman was the executioner."

Kyle's eyes went hard. "Yes. And because he's an asshole and he's _not good to you_ , instead of cutting the rope on the _fake body_ like we _planned_ , he cut you down and nearly killed you -- "

Kenny was shaking his head again. "No, dude, you don't get it -- he _knew_ I could do it; I'd made that jump a thousand times before, just didn't quite have the nuts to do it at night like that. And didn't it _make_ the scene? People really thought he _killed_ me -- it was the best show we've ever done."

"Yeah, I guess..." He agreed, grudgingly.

"I didn't understand it before, not until last year -- " Kenny paused and shook away the memory before it could surge and snarl. "But, Cartman, he keeps me..." Unbalanced, tethered, _living --_ he searched desperately for the right word. Failing, Kenny abruptly changed tactics, reached out and snatched the Tarot card from the center of the line-up. 

"I can't get out of here," He said, holding up the Eight of Swords. "I can't fucking get out of here without him."


	13. Chapter 13

### The Devil

Kenny scaled the chain-link fence and paused to perch at the peak -- like a hooded dementor, or an indecisive alley cat. The fence creaked and swayed from his movements, then resettled into the silent suburban glamour of night. Kenny breathed deeply. The wind was his breath was the wind -- he was in his element.

After elementary school, playgrounds and recess were replaced by parking lots and fifteen lousy minutes of standing around in groups, caught up in prepubescent popularity wars. This change in school policy was the last straw; it was the mechanism from which night-creeping was born. Night-creeping catered to the part of every rebellious teenager that itched to fight and contradict, the part that is discomfited by cages and rules -- Kenny was a born night-creeper. He'd taken on the shadows, worn twilight as his robe since he was barely eight years old, since he spent his nights avoiding sleep and playing ear to the South Park ghetto's crime-ridden streets as the vigilante Mysterion. First he learned to climb fire-escapes, scale fences and rain-gutters -- then he was picking padlocks, breaking windows, and dodging cops. 

They started night-creeping the summer after fifth grade. The game was simple: pick any line of houses, choose a start and an end point, and see who can climb through the backyards the quickest and quietest. They'd been picked up by the police a few times, as kids, and got their names and addresses taken -- but they really couldn't care less; night-creeping was necessary; if they didn't night-creep, they'd probably just get wasted and mug people like in Clockwork Orange. Adolescent restlessness was a dangerous thing to leave caged and starving. Anyway -- the cops lost interest in driving the neighborhood kids home and offering over-worked and under-slept parents the additional burden of punishing their kids for (mostly) harmless tomfoolery -- and after a while they got too good to catch; the kids got quieter, they knew the streets better; the night-creeping games got longer and later, and the stakes higher.

The chain-link fence chattered quietly as Kenny shifted his feet on the bar; he was squatting on its edge with the kind of careless, instinctual balance of a tree squirrel, but he moved to brace his hand on the links as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He'd ditched the mask and gloves at the start of phase two, and his hands had gone cloudy gray with gunpowder; they reminded him of the show he'd put on, the biggest explosion he'd ever set in his entire life; the sound of the mortars echoing across the ice still rang in his ears, and the flash of false daylight stung at his eyes. Ash rained from the sky and peppered the pond. For a few precious moments, he'd felt terrifically alive, and powerful.

When phase three began, Kenny felt himself drifting. He had watched his gray hands like an outsider -- or a stranger -- as they preformed the familiar motions of night-creeping -- flickering over walls for hand-holds, taking his weight on tricky overpasses, hitting the ground silently after long leaps -- and all the while that cool Halloween wind was rushing through all his hollow parts.

The flash of his phone screen cut through the night: _2:45 a.m._. Kenny had made excellent time -- they'd only set off 45 minutes ago; Kenny remembered locking eyes with Craig at the starting line as Tucker popped in his earbuds, gave him the finger, and took off on his line down Elm. Kenny's line was parallel to Craig's, on Pine Street. The average time for a run through the Tree-streets was two hours. Kenny only had a handful of backyards left before him, and he'd run them a thousand times in the past. He realized he had this tournament in the bag.

The next yard was Keats' -- their chemistry teacher's place. Keats was an alright dude; he set the lab ceiling on fire with a blast of magnesium the first day of class. Only, you kinda felt bad for him if you thought too long about it. Pushing through his fifties, hair already white as snow, and yet unmarried -- if he thought too long about it Kenny started wondering what the hell he was still living for; maybe the guy just got a good bang out of teaching chemistry. Kenny hoped that was it.

Keats' yard was taken over by a garden shed with a glass paneled roof. Night-creepers followed two routes, generally; he could either drop from the fence straight into the yard, or make his way over the roof of the shed. Dropping to the grass was a quiet, easy entry, but once down he knew he'd have a bitch of a time scaling the tall wood-panel fence into the neighbor's yard. Getting onto the roof of the shed was difficult, but it was the easiest way to drop into the yard next-door. 

Kenny's fingers caught the lip of the gently sloping roof panels and the soles of his boots slammed into the side-paneling with a barely audible bump of soft rubber on wood. He stretched out a leg to push off the slim window ledge below him, and with the additional leverage managed to pull himself up onto the roof. He crept hands-and-feet to the side of the roof that wasn't easily visible from the windows on the back of Keats' house. 

He'd done this before; they'd all done this before. His plan was to monkey along one of the long horizontal support beams, avoid putting his entire weight on any one of the panes of glass. The most dangerous part of it, really, was the noise of the creaking iron and the risk of waking the homeowner. Kenny absent-mindedly wondered how much he'd weighed the last time he did this; probably less than a hundred pounds. He paused at the midway point, staring at the dusty dark pane of glass beneath his hands and feet. Keats was a nut for chemistry. His favorite thing to quote was Murphy's Law: anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Kenny was aware of another moment coming on -- one of _those_ moments -- and he thought of Kyle's lesson in physics. _I'm moving through time,_ Kenny thought dimly. _I'm making the future._ He wondered what would happen if, this time, instead of hovering on the threshold and losing his damn mind, maybe -- if he _forced_ the dream into reality -- 

The pane squealed beneath his weight and a thick crack appeared in the center with a loud _pop_ , then thousands of tiny cracks splintered from the mother-vein with a sound like fireworks. _So this is it,_ Kenny thought.

###### 

He was disappointed to blink awake on the dirt floor of the garden shed with a ringing in his ears and the glass still shifting around him. He had hoped --

 _Next time, maybe._ Kenny thought dimly, and began to force awareness into his limbs -- catalog the losses. The instant his consciousness fully returned, the pain made him want to scream. But he had no breath for it. His body was frantically sending messages to his mind in the form of intense pain -- _not good_ flashed bright and urgent in his head like a 'Do Not Cross' signal.

After expending a massive amount of effort to shift his arm -- inch by excruciating inch -- out from under his aching body, Kenny kicked at the floor until he managed a sitting position against some sacks of fertilizer.

He sighed deeply through the haze of pain-induced adrenaline flooding his mind. The only sounds in the shed were the tinkling of crushed glass beneath his shoes and the occasional howl of the wind outside rattling the surviving panes. Kenny stared glumly at the arm folded across his stomach. _Will this be enough to kill me?_ He thought, eyeing the bit of bone peeking out of the skin at his elbow. The olecranon -- the pointy bit of his elbow -- if he was remembering his freshman anatomy correctly. _Compound fracture was a nice touch,_ he congratulated himself. _Nobody would expect me to go out like this._

His face stung where the glass had pecked at him. His shoulders and tail-bone ached from the impact, but his arm had gone numb. He felt freezing cold, suddenly, and considered trying to roll down his sleeves, but didn't fancy pulling fabric over the knob of bone and its oozy red laceration. He decided it didn't matter if he was cold. Even with his blood pounding in his ears, Kenny felt relaxed. The dark fuzz of unconsciousness was already creeping at the edges of his vision. Had he hit his head? He wondered. Or was this a response to the trauma? He'd never broke something before. Not in the material present, anyway.

Kenny reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt with his other hand, but at the touch of his fingers, the hard line of his cell phone fell away. Instead, he grasped a different object.

 _Huh_ , he thought. _Craig's M80s._ He didn't even remember taking them. 

He fumbled one cigarette out of the package, searched for his lighter, but promptly ran out of energy -- instead leaning his head back against the bag of cow shit, and finally allowing his eyes to slip closed. _Maybe... Better this way._

The horned creature hit the ground beside him like a thunderbolt out of the quiet night.

Through half-lidded eyes Kenny watched the Devil rise from the shattered glass. Beneath a set of curving horns, a demonic -- faintly taurine -- face leered down at him. And then it was upon him, seizing him by the shoulders. He coughed his surprise -- he'd expected to have his soul harvested, maybe, (if there was anything left of it), not to be shaken like a fucking rag doll.

"Wake up -- " It demanded. "Wake up!"

" _McCormick!_ "

Wait. He knew that bark. " -- Cartman?" He couldn't see Eric's eyes through the dark pits -- a large part of him was trying to get away from the monster, even though he knew who must be under the mask.

"Yeah, it's me, you fuck." The Devil growled, ripping the cigarette from Kenny's lips and hurling it across the shed. "So this is how it is? _This_ how you wanna go?"

"Stop -- " Kenny gurgled as his friend began shaking him again.

"Oh, you want me to stop? You want me to leave you here to bleed out, is that it?"

"What was that?" He demanded, his horrifying horned visage looming closer. "Please? Please what, McCormick? You want me to _save_ your miserable life?"

"Take it off -- " Kenny wheezed. "The mask -- "

Cartman suddenly leaned away, and when he spoke it was with a strange, raw coldness. "Trust me, Kenny. You don't want to see my face right now."

In the next few minutes Kenny faded in and out of consciousness. He was vaguely aware of Cartman making a furious phone call: "Never _mind_ how I fucking knew -- "

Then he was being wrestled into a makeshift sling. 

"Shut up," Eric spat, when Kenny moaned his objection. "Compound fracture, that's cute," He was muttering. "You couldn't land on your scrawny ass?"

"I think I landed on everything."

As Cartman's hands worked in the dim light, Kenny noticed that one of them -- his dominant hand -- was wrapped in gauze, and the exposed fingers were nothing short of clumsy and mangled. 

"What's with club-hand?"

"Ha-ha. Club-hand looks like raw meat right now. But it's doing its best, so leave it alone."

It must be true, then, what Craig heard from Pat heard from his dad; the turf wars were still in full swing, and Eric was part of it. _Why_ did he always have to be fucking part of it? And... why was he here? How was he here?

"Eric," Kenny said, eyes dancing over his own vision spots. "You -- worried about me?"

He was hauled to his feet in an instant. "What is this to you, a fucking romantic comedy?" the Devil roared in his ear. 

"Don't you dare laugh," Cartman continued. "Stop -- nobody's dying tonight."

Kenny couldn't help himself. Even when Eric unlocked the shed door and maneuvered him out into the backyard on trembling legs, Kenny choked around spurts of quiet, manic laughter. He laughed at the pain in his arm, at the glass dusting their shoulders and dripping from his hair; he laughed at the delightful absurdity of being saved by the Devil himself.


	14. Chapter 14

### The High Priestess

I pulled out the book on soul hunting and threw the text down on the wood-veined table. This one was written in a Mongolian dialect and had been an utter bitch to read; the language didn't even have a modern-day equivalent, and only a handful of existing languages were even members of the same linguistic family. The only way to get through the foreign volumes without resorting to translation was by entering the Middle World; reading in a foreign language had become a matter of accessing theta-consciousness -- the gateway to the Middle World, and then -- if I was understanding this correctly -- accessing the collective outer consciousness. It was this 'universal pool of knowledge' that let me process the words in the book in a way that made meaning in my head. But it was hard to get there, harder to hold stable, and every sentence was taxing. Greek had been easier than Sumerian, which had been eons easier than the ancient Mongolian.

"Tell me about soul retrieval."

"You've -- finished it?" 

"Always the tone of surprise. You _gave_ me the book -- so I _read_ it; wasn't that what you wanted?"

"I didn't expect you'd get through it so quickly; at your level, I think it's safer to stay in the realm of Light work -- "

"No, no -- I'm not interested in the meditating, healing, and blessing bullshit. Tell me about soul retrieval."

"Eric, until you've settled your internal turmoil by practicing in the Light, it is dangerous to experiment with Shadow work."

"Internal turmoil? I haven't got any."

"You've changed, since the last time we met like this."

"And I can see you're still pretending to be in your thirties."

"Do you know what you look like?"

"What? ...Yes."

"Whenever you travel to the Lower, Middle, or Upper Worlds, your appearance will reflect your self-image. At the beginner level, you should be able to cast a stable self-image; intermediate skills include changing it at will, and crafting inter-dimensional spaces like this -- " She gestured to the shadowed kitchen we sat in, the same one as before. "More advanced users might even successfully call forward and banish others' projections at will -- "

"Like I did."

"Not exactly."

I snorted. 

"It is _because_ you haven't mastered the basic skills of projection yet that you managed to shatter mine. The key to control in these spaces is an organized, _closed_ mind. Right now your mind is open and cluttered: your emotions, your suspicion and doubt, are interacting with my projection. If I bore you any ill will, I could seize this opening and incapacitate you by doing damage directly to your soul. Remember this?"

She held up the mug, the same one I'd drank from before. As I watched, she held the mug over the floor and dropped it. It disappeared into the pool of darkness on the floor without a sound. When I looked back up, she was holding it again.

"Your mind is still clinging to the laws of linear existence: physics -- but you are in the _meta_ -physical world now. Here, the rules of your reality are nothing more than false expectations. When you threw this mug, you weren't actually throwing anything at all -- it was only a shadow I created to comfort you in the new surroundings -- but because you were _certain_ that the mug would crash, your mind supplied the effect you were looking for. The force of your conviction, combined with my -- slight -- loss of concentration was able to shatter my projection. In other words, your scientific misunderstanding of your environment led to psychological rejection, and the resultant misfire of energy was enough to break free."

"So basically, you're saying I cheated."

"Yes. I can see you're still locked into reason -- let's try something simple. What do you look like?"

I didn't know. I looked at my hands. They were pitch black. Not black like a room with the lights off but black like a spot on the sun. No light reflected from them; it was like looking at two-dimensional five-fingered holes in the fabric of space-time. 

"Last time you were able to project an image of your hand with the help of a memory of physical trauma; when your body is wounded, your soul also sustains damage, and it may be reflected in your projection. If you can't get your own self-projection under control, it will be impossible to effect an interdimensional space like this one."

I noticed her eyes dancing around my head, like she was eyeing up an ugly hat or something. I lifted my black hole hands to my face, trying not to get wrapped up in reason; because reason told me I had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth -- reason told me I was probably dreaming. 

"What the _fuck_..." My hands fell on two horns curving downward around my ears and spiraling outward like a ram's. As I felt them I came to sudden spacial awareness of my head, and the added _weight_ of the horns. I went to pull at my hair and instead found yet another pair of horns, these ones extending straight and pointed from my forehead -- not smooth; the bone was patterned in spirals of knobs and grooves. I was a motherfucking monster. 

"What is this."

"Fascinating visage. I've never seen anything quite like it. It might've been a traditional devil's guise -- if not for the rest of the horns."

 _The rest..._ "How many are there?"

"Six."

_Holy hell._

The woman looked at me across the table with her snubbed chin resting on clasped hands. A queer-looking pentagram winked at me from the ring on her smallest finger.

"Your friend was right," she mused. "Your eyes are quite red."

I didn't like the way she was looking at me -- like a collector eyeing up a special edition Pokémon card, finding it not just rare but holographic too. It made my meta-physical skin crawl. 

"I've encountered beginners before, in the field," she was saying. "Without a clear self-image, they appear on this plane as shades, blurred figures with extremely limited ability -- something like how you appeared the last time we met on this plane. To manipulate your visage at will is an intermediate skill; mastering it requires a clear image of one's inner self, which is already something few have. Now, yours appears to be -- well, it isn't blurry at all, is it? It is quite certain. But also -- quite inhuman. What's happened?"

I tossed my horned head at her. I didn't have a clue what my face looked like but I felt a pulse of something gruesome and snarled. 

Mawal chuckled. "I would be curious to see if you could make it to the Upper World on gall alone."

"Then we're in the -- "

"Middle World. You've been here before many times, most likely in dreams, although with practice it may come to you in the waking hours, in the form of visions or sounds -- "

"Like hearing into the future?"

"Futures." she corrected. "The Middle World, unlike our reality, is in a state of entropy -- within it are multitudes of dueling potentials, just beginning to distill into our material present. Hearing a potential future would be an example of remote viewing, a form of Mindsight. I've even heard of a few masters of the art who can seize a desired potential and bring it to the material plane, but the required energetic potential is... vast. As you know, the three kingdoms can only exist in a state of energetic conservation, so to perform such a feat -- to _change_ the future, effectively -- would require a massive exchange of energy down the line in order to maintain balance -- "

I waved a casual black hand. "I know this. I read the damn books. So how do I get into someone _else's_ Middle World?"

She frowned. "That is Shadow Work, Eric. In order to interact with someone else in the Middle World, you must obtain their full knowledge and consent, and furthermore; you need to master basic skills of projection, which you haven't."

"I don't have _time_ for all that."

The only sounds in the kitchen this time around were the trembling arias of Rossini and a faraway buzzing noise like a magnetic field. 

"Who is it that you believe is experiencing soul loss?"

I leaned back from the table, crossed my arms, and dimly noted that my forearms had come to rest over -- a mane. I have a fucking _mane_. 

"Soul retrieval is usually performed in teams, anyway. It's a complex process, and it involves risks -- both mental and physical -- to both parties. Most retrieval ceremonies require the participation of family members and friends; a full understanding of the victim is essential -- 

"And, even if you manage to hunt down the scattered fragments of soul, it is ultimately up to the victim to reassemble them. All you can do is mark the path.

"Eric -- it is important that you are absolutely _certain_ that soul loss has occurred. If not, your interference could damage the soul irreparably -- and the consequences in the material world could be -- "

"Lasting illness or death, I know." I said. "And there's the _same_ risk if y'don't _recollect_ it in time -- "

"But you're _certain_?"

I had stumbled into the Middle World several times over the past month and a half -- in particular the weeks following Halloween. Mostly I was lucid dreaming a lot -- dreaming with a conscious mind -- but sometimes I slipped into it at my piano bench. At first, I got caught up in the fantasies, the chaos of a dreamlike reality (or perhaps, a reality-like dream); in its bizarre trick-rooms I held conversations with cats and made out with projections of my best friend. Which, the longer I didn't think about _that_ , and the twisted structures of my middle-conscious realm, the better -- so instead I pushed further and further away from my own shadowed self, and I found others. 

"I think -- " Fuck, I shouldn't say this. "I think I found a piece already. In the Middle World."

"What happened?"

"There were a shit-ton of fires burning on the horizon," I said, recalling the first time pushing myself outside of my familiar cragged territory. I'd stumbled out of my world of pure night and into a daydream nation, an expanse of fields like the ocean lying under a setting sun. It was vast -- a curving sky of flat land -- and every hectare blazed with bonfires, the same as the crop-fires at the end of summer in South Park, but on a massively different scale. In the following nights, I revisited the foreign land in a series of lucid dreams strung between the usual visions of death. 

"I went towards them, and ended up in these fields. And he was there, burning shit; every time I go he's always just burning shit -- never runs out of it. And, I mean, that's what he _does_ , you know? He sets shit on fire -- but this... this is just destruction. He's destroying everything."

"Did you interact?"

"I, uh -- I think he saw me, behind him, the third or fourth time. I got yanked. Everything kind of fell away."

"And have you gone back since then?"

"Once. But he's not there anymore. Nothing's there; no fires, everything is just ash." Black-gray seas under a pale moon. Had my darkness crept in?

"Noticeable change in the material self?"

"Yes -- " I leaned my elbows on the wood and passed my hands over my face, finding it hideously ridged. " -- and no. It's better, but it's worse."

"Wait," I said, reading her thoughtful expression. "Did I -- did I do something right?"

She twisted one of her rings back and forth. "I would check in again in a few days. Maybe."

"I need to get to the Lower World."

"Why is that? You've barely begun to explore the Middle World -- there could be more fragments you haven't discovered."

"Nah -- " I felt my lips pull over my teeth. " _I_ know where the little fuck is hiding. The Lower World is where animals go -- I'm surprised I found any traces of him at all on the upper planes."

She smiled a queer smile. "You can imagine how difficult it is to search for the soul of a stranger."

"I don't know what you're implying. You gonna tell me how to get there or not?"

"Hmm, the books don't say _how_ to travel between realms, do they? In fact, your own mind and body are linked to how you enter the three kingdoms. The Middle World is the realm of the mind; those given to solitude or self-reflection will have an easier time accessing it -- you probably dipped into it without even realizing. The Lower World is closer to the sub-conscious; it is the realm of the body."

"It stands to reason, then," She continued. "That in order to enter the Lower World, one must first bridge the mind-body divide."

 _Fuck_. I cursed inwardly, glaring at my absorbing black hands. _How the fuck am I going to do this,_ I thought, _when I don't even know what I am anymore?_

"Eric -- you are a creature of the mind; to overcome the disconnection, you must find the bridge."

"Cool, thanks for the lesson in ambiguous advice -- now how do I fucking _do_ that?"

"Simple; what connects the mind to the body?"

"That's what I'm askin' _you_." Another surge of that gruesome thing. The magnetic fuzz-buzz sound was coming from my _skin_.

"The _neck_ , Eric."

"...I don't understand."

"You're not ready to enter the Lower World."

"You keep saying I can't do this shit, that I can't break projections or hunt souls -- but do you ever get tired of being wrong?"

"I told you, disrupting my last room was something of a fluke -- "

"And now?"

She held my gaze for a loaded minute. Finally: "You've changed the music."

"You should really pick up J. Cole's new album."

"Subtle."

"You said I couldn't fuck around with interdimensional spaces before fixing this -- " I gestured to whatever the fuck was going on with my body. "But I'm _doing_ it, and I already _found_ a fragment... I know you said it takes a village for soul retrieval, but -- well, he ain't got a village, does he? He's got _me_ \-- "

"Calm down -- your face is bleeding again. You don't understand; soul retrieval requires interactions on several levels because, even if you manage to uncover all the missing fragments, without the correct physical impetus the distortion of the soul will persist. And in the mean-time, you put yourself in danger by venturing into another's outer consciousness without a clear idea of the nature of your own -- you're very vulnerable in this state -- "

"Not important. I can do it."

"Listen to me, Eric," She said, but her voice was growing low and distant. "If you push too hard, you will lose yourself in this process."

"I've got nothing to lose." My cat is dead, my mother's gone, and my best friend is in pieces.

"Eric -- "

"Look at my fucking face," I said into the creeping dark. "I've got nothing."

### The Hierophant

"干嘛?"

God, I hated when Boss Lou threw his whacked Chinese slang at me -- almost a year working with him and I'd unwillingly picked up a slew of un-translatable phrases in his local dialect. This one -- _gan-maa_ \-- he only used when I was dicking around, so I guessed it meant something along the lines of _what the fuck are you doing?_

"I _told_ you," I yelled over my shoulder. "I'm feedin' the damn dog."

I kicked the door closed behind me; the little bell over the frame drowned out Lou's response. The place was deserted, anyway; aside from a breakfast rush between 6:30 and 11, nobody ever came in on holidays. 

The dog was -- like the ovens -- something left over from the previous owner of the building. Liu didn't just buy the diner, he bought the whole damn building, which included the hair salon and the chiropractor's office next door. Liu bitched a lot about utilities, but he was probably making good bank just collecting rent. 

The dog was chained up outside the front door every day during operating hours, and then Lou moved him into the storage area at night. Even I knew that was a pathetic life for a dog. Any teenager knows what it's like to be chained up -- some even knew what it was like to be sold out by their 'owners' and fashioned into one more bill with two blinking eyes. 

Lou called him "Go," but I think that just means dog. I didn't know his name. He was probably an old sled dog, like Stan said, with the classic markings of a husky in tones of white and russet brown, and blue eyes a hair too close together -- classic sign of inbreeding. I didn't know much about Go but I knew he was one beast really down on his luck.

While the dog nosed around in the new bowl, I dropped to a crouch to continue reading. This one was a slim volume I'd plucked from Mawal's crooked shelves on the way out of her place -- (space?) -- the other day. It was a recorder's transcription of a Rabbi's teachings. Be damned if I took anything on the word of a Jew, but I was desperate, and beneath the religious rhetoric was a fairly in-depth discussion of the "three realms". I was getting better at snapping into theta-consciousness; it was the only way to digest material in a different language. I'd asked Mawal about possibly getting something in bloody _English_ for once, but she fed me some bullshit about the distortion of meaning inherent in translation. Only by touching my consciousness to the chaotic spiritual energies of the Middle World could I begin to grasp any meaning from the tangled shapes. _Man, if Kyle caught me reading Hebrew --_

Apparently, an animal can guide you to the Lower World.

I sunk my fingers into Go's thick ruff. "Can you take me there?"

The bell over the door ricocheted off the frame with another rattle as Lou pushed it open from the inside. "Hey -- I said before, no give the dog kitchen food. You know the price of that bacon? 70 cents a piece!"

"So take it out of my paycheck," I said. "Ya can't feed a dog on rice and egg slop. I don't how it is in fuckin' China, but this is just asking for a visit from Animal Control."

"You do not decide! I am head bussa -- "

" _Head bussa?_ " I sputtered. "Where'd you hear _that?_ "

"It is the dark child said to me. Is it right?"

"Uh, yeah." Head bussa, _holy shit, Ax._

"When you finish, go home."

I shoved the book under my arm, collected Go's empty bowl, and stood. "I can stay to close."

Lou shook his head. "I don't want to pay you -- there is no work. And your face -- it scares the customers."

"Then don't pay me." I said, pushing past him back into the diner. The seating area was dark with thick afternoon shadows; Lou would do his own nut before turning the lights on without anyone in house, the cheap bastard.

"It is a holiday, isn't it?" He said, following me into the kitchens. "Go home. Be with family."

"Nah."

The dishes were done, the tables clean. I'd spent all morning breaking down boxes from the supply drop-off; I had cardboard box hands, red, raw, and just slightly cut up -- another shitty job of food service. Lou already sliced the pickle spears, so I started collecting the greasy disgusting salad dressing bottles and refilling them for the lunch service. Probably wouldn't even be a lunch service today, but it would save me the trouble of starting tomorrow morning with mayonnaise fingers. There's nothing quite like dueling with chipotle mayo at ass-past six o'clock in the morning. 

Lou walked into the fridge and fucked around for a bit, then re-emerged with a spiral of ham. He started up the big slicer at the cutting table. The slicer was a counter-top set-up of spinning razor-sharp blades; he still wouldn't let me use it.

We shot the bull for a while from our respective stations, covering everything from our regular customers' small lives to local politics. Lou's English wasn't _good_ but it was also pretty fucking brilliant; I guess you can't work in the service industry for 20-odd years without picking up the lingo. The only teachers he had were first-hand experience with customers and his trailer trash employees, so his vocabulary was sometimes a nightmare of exact grammar and towny garbage. I played my part -- he gave me his random fucking Chinese slang and we taught him "head bussa."

The music in Lou's diner was always tuned to the jazz station. He had the sound system and its hairball of wires strung up in the kitchen and -- ever since Axel made the mistake of twisting the dial one lazy afternoon -- set firmly to 88.9 with duct tape; I wasn't even sure Liu liked jazz that much -- he said he chose it because he had this dream of running a jazz-inspired coffee shop, but it was probably because the jazz station was free. I didn't mind it, for the most part, but every day around noon the crazy cazoo-player came on and played a 15-minute solo that made me want to stick my head in a microwave. _Kenny_ would fuckin' -- Hell, Kenny would fuckin' burn the place _down_. 

I consoled myself with the reminder that, by the start of December, Lou would switch over to the holiday station, and it would stay that way until at least mid-January. I'd take crazy cazoo guy over "Santa baby" any day of the week. Maybe if I could find a way to tune it out using theta -- 

"You work here whole month, no go to school."

"I'm on medical leave."

The hum of the slicer's spinning blades came to a slow whirring halt. He took the bottles I'd filled and arranged them back at the sandwich bar in the front. I was stuck with the last greasy bottle and a massive Bullet Bill-sized jar of heavy duty mayonnaise under my arm. I hated this job.

"These," Lou said, hovering at my side. "You have how long?"

"'Bout a month."

He hummed and moved away, returning with a long pair of table scissors.

"Sit," He said, tapping the stainless steel of the cutting counter.

He shoved some paper towels into my mayonnaise hands and I felt the cold pointed blades begin to tussle with the inflamed flesh on the side of my head. I didn't know which was worse: shaking lumpy mayonnaise into a tiny bottle until I wanted to puke, or allowing a penny-pinching Chinese dude with a giant pair of scissors fuck around with my stitches until I was nauseous enough to puke.

There was a snap -- a light bloomed behind my right eye -- and the first bloodied black loop fell to the counter. _Sanitary,_ I thought numbly.

"The Church woman from Riverside, she see you, now she is thinking I have an attack dog."

I snorted. "Right, that's why I work here."

"She maybe call the police." He continued, snipping away the second loop. "If this happen to me, I call the police." 

"In China? Would you call the police in China if some fuck's dog attacked you?"

"No," He admitted. "They are all two-fifty."

 _Two-fifty_ meant dumb-ass, basically. "It's the same here. Police don't do either of us any good." Lou had enough code violations in the freezer alone to lose his business and probably the building too. Not to mention the under-the-table employees.

As the last loop fell to the counter, the bell over the front door chattered. Lou muttered something under his breath and pulled the paper towels from my hand to press against my head. "Hold here."

He swept out of the kitchens to the front. My head was pulsing from the abuse, fresh blood leaking from the pulled stitches, and I regretted not trying to force something down for breakfast that morning; I was too dizzy to put my feet on the floor. The crazy cazoo song seemed longer today. 

"非眼!" I heard Lou call. _Fuck,_ I thought. There was only one person he called that. 

As Lou started to duck back into the kitchens I was already shaking my head at him. He nodded and returned to the front. No way in hell was I talking to McCormick with a bloody head and fucking mayonnaise fingers. I wasn't exactly everyday killing it, but this was just too pathetic.

The bell over the door rang again and Lou returned to the kitchens. 

"Will ya stop calling him that?" I grouched. "What if he looks it up?"

Lou looked at me oddly. "These characters -- you cannot translate."

 _Beautiful eyes,_ I thought. _Why's he always gotta effing_ remind _me?_


	15. Chapter 15

### Lovers, Reversed

A freezing rain fell on the neighbor's tin roof. The sound of its clamoring applause brought the bleak landscape into steep black-and-gray clarity: dark dips and pockets in the gravel lot filled with muddy water and rustled with life beneath the rain; the ringing shouts of the neighbors' cheers and fears got caught in the chaotic in-between space and carried in bits and pieces through the window, like a conversation dropped in a blender. 

Each time the McCormicks moved, the spaces got smaller, the neighbors got closer, and life inside and outside the house grew infinitely louder. 

She hadn't liked the idea of sharing a bedroom with her brother, but her initial pettiness had been replaced by discomfit; he wasn't often in, so the space always felt strange -- shared but unclaimed, a false impression of solitude marred by the persisting sense of _absence_ , like something was broken or just not quite right. 

The window over the desk never closed all the way. Rain flecked the inside of her notebook. Karen stood and moved to lean against the windowsill. Across the lot were three neighbors in rock-throwing distance, not to mention the Stevenson's, who lived on the other side of the same building. Even from the bedroom she could hear whenever the Stevensons used the microwave in their kitchen. Then there were the _other_ next door neighbors, the ones who screamed about the hot water at all hours of the day and never seemed to run out of things to smash. 

If she pressed her nosetip to the cool glass, she could just see the battered toes of her father's boots from under the awning of the front porch they shared with the Stevensons. He was sitting in his chair, no doubt; she could tell by the way the boots rocked in and out of view. She could just make out the buzz of the hand-radio over the clatter of the rain. 

The McCormicks didn't celebrate Thanksgiving. Every third Thursday in November, her father would sit on the porch, eat chicken, drink his beer, and listen to the broadcast of the football game even when the radio's signal petered out -- he'd listen to the static fuzz at full volume until her mother threatened to lock the door. 

"Oy -- " Dad was hollering. Because that's what he did, when he was drunk; he hollered.

The screen on the front door opened with an abrupt shriek. 

"This chicken is _cold_. Did ya cook it, or just take it outta the fridge?"

Her mother's response was blocked by the awning and drowned by the rain, but she guessed it probably had something to do with keeping food warm under a freezing rain in the depths of November. 

"Then put it in the damn microwave, lazy bitch!"

" -- what d'you mean, _no beer?_ I just bought a six-pack -- "

She heard the groan of wood as her father planted his boots on the planks and stood, re-entering the house with another shriek and slam of the door. 

Karen turned away from the window as shouting erupted again from inside the house. 

"You _drank_ it? Drank _all six_ \-- you better be off replacin' it, boy -- "

Her brother's voice matched her father's in volume and fury -- it had ever since he turned 13 and started arguing back. " -- you keep your shit out of the house!"

She remembered peeking into the bathroom last night, watching her brother systematically pierce and drain six beers into the toilet. 

"This is my house -- _I_ decide what shit stays and goes," His shouts changed tenor as they were angled to the kitchen. "Don't interrupt me, bitch!"

She moved back to the desk and put in her earphones. Her mp3 player was stolen last week at school, but the headphones still helped cut the sounds from downstairs; and if she stared out the window she could pretend it was all just part of the weather.

The shouting persisted until it broke into the telltale sounds of a scuffle in the kitchen under her feet. The sound of pots clattering -- " _Get off me!_ " came her mother's scream.

The door to the room snapped open, bringing the noise into sudden clarity. 

"Come on," said her brother, tossing a coat at her. "We're getting out of here. Not gonna let you sit around and listen to the shit that fucked me up as a kid."

Did he forget they were only two years apart? Sometimes Karen felt that her brother's concern was misplaced -- she wasn't the only one growing up in this bleak landscape, after all -- but every year he grew closer to her and yet more absent. In the empty room she shared with him, Karen dwelled in solitude cramped by the shadow of her big brother's wings. 

"What are you writing?" He moved closer. Karen shut the notebook and began shrugging on her jacket -- one of the orange parkas he'd grown out of. 

"Fine, keep your secrets," He said, and smiled at her with distant fondness. 

Every step down the stairs brought her heartbeat higher and higher in her throat. She tried to focus on the thump of Kenny's footsteps behind her. Living in the McCormick households meant constant fear of discovery; she had begun to startle at loud noises -- even at school the paranoia never quite abated. They were noticed when his hand was on the front door. 

" _Where_ are you going with my daughter?" yelled their mother. 

He pulled the door open and pushed Karen out to the deck. "Get in the truck," he said, and the door closed again. 

Karen could hear the shouting all the way to where her father's Chevy pickup crouched on the gravel under the rain. 

"She's got _dance practice_ \-- or did you forget _again?_ "

"I didn't see nothing on the schedule -- "

"As if you could _read_ , woman!" Her father cut in.

"The doctor said he can't drive with that arm -- "

"Then how's he gonna replace all the beer he drank -- "

She closed the passenger door. The next minute her brother was slipping out the door, throwing up his hood against the rain, then sliding into the driver's seat. 

"I know you don't have dance today," He said. 

The gravel growled and complained beneath the truck's tires. Kenny's hand flicked out to strike the toggle beside the wheel. The wipers started up reluctantly. Karen watched them stumble and squeal over the windshield like screaming things, as if they'd been suffering this whole time but no one bothered to do anything about it because it was just their proper place. 

"Where d'you wanna go? I can take you to Stan's. Sharon will get you some dinner."

He glanced over. Karen shook her head. 

"Uh? I thought you liked the Marshes. I guess Shelly's a little -- " Kenny pulled the truck around a turn and onto the South Park main road. He used the fingers of his left hand to stabilize the bottom of the steering wheel while his dominant hand made the turn. He'd stopped wearing the sling two weeks after the accident, but his elbow was still held in a flex-brace -- Karen thought it made him look bionic, like a superhero. It made sense; nobody ever stopped to take care of superheroes. 

"What about Jimbo's shop? I bet he'll let you play around with the guns." He offered. "No? Then, just show me where to go, little wolf."

She rolled her eyes at the nickname, and gestured for him to continue driving straight. 

"You know why we don't celebrate Thanksgiving?" He said, tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel in the absence of any music. "Dad used to talk about it when we were little -- I dunno if you remember."

Kenny held the wheel with his weak arm and reached over her to pop open the glove compartment, shuffling through a mess of drivers' manuals, registration papers, and old cigar wrappers. Finally he pulled free a black and gray polaroid photograph. 

Karen took the photo from him. The man in the picture was deeply lined and grim-faced. He was American Indian; there were feathers in his black hair and a bright white sash across his chest. 

"That's Satank, killed in 18-something -- 70 or 71. We're related to him, believe it or not. Dad's fuckin' Irish grandfather married a Kiowa woman called Kicking Bird. He don't like to talk about it anymore, but I think we have a right to know -- it's our blood, right? It's part of us."

"I did some digging -- you see that sash? Only the greatest warriors wore it. The Kiowa were hunters, mountain-people; they lived in the Rockies for a while, and then its the usual story; they were robbed, nine-parts wiped out and one-part assimilated by the settlers. Then -- huh? Left? Right here? Okay."

He pulled the truck around the turn. "Anyway, they were one of the most violently anti-settler tribes in the West. Funny how it all worked out, huh."

Karen looked at the grim Kiowa warrior in the picture, and thought she saw some of the same ragged strength in his dark eyes that she used to see in her brother's Irish blue ones. She felt like she was finally starting to understand the desperate, contradictory forces that wrestled inside them. It was this inner conflict that threw her father into drunken rages and her brother into episodes of strange, detached mourning; it was the same thing that pushed Karen deeper and later into the night, like a dislocated thing searching for place.

"Here?"

She nodded, and he pulled the truck into park outside one of the many activity centers in downtown South Park. 

"You sure? This area looks pretty rough."

Karen stared pointedly at the small community center's windows, where a scattering of elderly folks could be seen playing chess and checkers in the dim light. 

"Sure, it's filled with harmless old people now, but just wait -- the sun goes down and this place is crawling with thugs. This is elementary hood shit, Kar."

He sighed and reached over to pull gently at her shoulder. "I'm just tryna make you smile, sis."

She cracked the door and started to get out. 

"Oh, one more thing," He said, and dug something out of his pocket. "Here -- this is yours. Tracked it down the other day."

She took the mp3 player. Kenny pushed up his glasses. "Stay away from those rich kids at school; they're all crooks, trust me. And, hey -- just let me know when you wanna be picked up. Don't matter when."

Karen tried a smile, then hopped down to the pavement. At the door to the community center she turned to wave him away. When the truck was out of sight, she skirted around the building and entered the maze of rainy side-streets. Karen pulled her hood up against the rain and wondered when someone would take care of her brother for a change.

###### 

"What's up, dude?" As usual, Kenny had barely slid his finger over his phone screen before Stan shot into conversation at full speed. "Hey -- you got plans for Thanksgiving? You should come over; we have a ton of food this year, and my mom loves you -- "

"I have plans, actually."

"Oh." Stan said, and there was some light shuffling on the other end, as if he were moving into another room. "Do these plans involve Cartman?"

"No -- I mean, I guess so." Kenny sighed. "I've been looking for him all fucking afternoon."

"Fat chance getting him to come out anyway; he's ignored my texts all month -- but hey, maybe you'll have better luck. Where you headed now?"

 _All month_ echoed in his head. "Believe me, you're not the only one getting the silent treatment -- oh, shit hang on -- "

"Kenny? What's going on, dude -- wait, are you _driving_?"

"Kenny!"

"Shut up, Stan, you're on _speaker_ , dammit -- I'm not even holding the phone." Kenny said. "I just pulled into Cartman's neighborhood -- "

"You think he's home?"

"Oh -- I know he's fucking home!" Kenny said, suddenly furious. "How do I know? Because guess who almost wiped me off the road in her _fucking_ Mazda just now? Go on, _guess_."

"Lotus drives a Mazda?"

"Well her family's not rich enough for a fucking _Lotus_ , that's for sure," Kenny muttered. "Lotus fucking Summers... Mother of god -- he probably got off work not two fuckin' hours ago -- I just barely manage to fish my sister out of that hellhole and he's already -- "

"He was working today? With that shit on his face?" Stan said.

"Oh yeah," Kenny said, finally able to release the captive train of thought that had been burning tracks in his mind since he left the dark restaurant. "I went to Lou's earlier -- just to check it out, you know, see if he's working -- and the place was totally deserted, nothing but a light on in the back, right? But it's open, so I go in, and Lou comes out, wielding a pair of _bloody fucking scissors_ , and says he's not in. Like -- what the fuck is that?"

"Whoa -- "

"He's got my best friend's blood on his fucking scissors -- telling me he ain't in -- "

"Wait -- how d'you know it was his blood?"

"Well, shit, Stanley, let's think -- " He felt misdirected anger and frustration crawling up his throat like the black fumes of burning coal; he was a self-propelling time bomb, he was a runaway train without tracks. _Almost the whole month._ "The guy's not got a single cut on him, and only one fuck-nut on his staff has a fucking hole in his head -- "

"Ohh, I get it -- he was probably yanking those stitches."

"Yeah," Kenny finished lamely. "I think so."

"...You really think Cartman's your best friend?"

"It's fucking obvious isn't it." Kenny said, morose. He was well past denial on that fact; he'd spent the whole month of November under freezing rain, fumbling with a broken bone and a constant broken reminder of that night -- and that horned thing. Everything was getting louder -- louder arguments in his house, louder migraines in his head, a louder emptiness in his life.

"Yeah! I just -- I mean, right on, man."

"Just because I haven't been able to squeeze a single fucking word out of him since October doesn't mean we're not -- "

"Yeah, yeah, of course -- "

"And you know what," Kenny was hardly seeing straight. "Not everybody's like you and Kyle, you know -- like, I can't sniff out every fucking mile between us; I don't live a half-life if he's in the next room over; I don't need -- I don't needa count his fucking _freckles_ once a week -- "

"Kenny!" Stan yelled down the receiver. "Shit, man, I didn't say any of that -- "

Stan's voice broke off to be replaced by another. "Kenny. Do you actually feel that way?"

"Jesus," He muttered. "Call up the left nut and the right one's never far away."

"You really feel that way about _Eric Cartman?_ "

"Fuck you, Kyle."

"That's not your line."

" _Fuck_ you!" Kenny was at his least eloquent peak of spitting rage. 

"He was pretty pissed on Halloween." Kyle went on, and he might've been painting his damn nails for all he sounded interested in the topic. 

"I kind of got that -- but what's there to be pissed about, anyway? I fell. Shit happens."

"That's what we said. But he said you didn't fall. He said you were the best night-creeper in the county."

"He kept -- " Stan broke off with a laugh. "He kept _shakin'_ you, man -- Kyle threatened to pull the car over and dump him on the way to the hospital."

"What -- what is so funny about this, Stan?" Kenny demanded.

"But you shoulda seen him in homeroom that Monday -- " Stan went on. "Tucker's blowing wind about winning the tournament, right, and Cartman just tells him to go eat a fuckin' dick. With those big damn stitches on his head, right? And straight-faced as hell: _Eat a dick, Tucker_ \-- !"

"Did you have a point with this?"

"Oh, yeah," Stan said, curbing his laughter. "Look, I was pretty pissed too -- I bet like 300 bucks on you, man -- but it's no big deal. We grossed a fuck of a lot more just on interest from the card table. Anyway, you broke your elbow, lost the tournament, and you probably gave Craig bragging rights for about a century, but -- which of those things would piss Cartman off?"

Kenny shrugged.

"Well its obvious, isn't it?" Stan went on. "He was _worried_ about you, man."

He could hear Kyle begin to express his doubts about Cartman's motivations -- and Kenny was almost inclined to agree with him. "I just don't get it," he said. "He acts like he wants nothing to do with us."

"Well, Cartman doesn't exactly _express_ himself the way normal human beings do, does he?" Kyle said.

"Listen," Stan said. "Don't tell Cartman this, because it actually still makes me really sad to think about and he'll hurt me emotionally if he finds out -- but I used to listen to a lot of Robin Williams. Like, his inspirational stuff, you know? I had a hard time getting out of bed in Middle; it was like -- like clawing out of six feet of dirt every morning -- and, well, you know. And then you know what happened?"

"I know what happened."

"Yeah. And that -- that shit really sucked, right?"

"Right."

"And so, I'm left thinking, what do I do now? Do I keep listening to the tapes, knowing that for all his words, he couldn't save himself? And if that's true, what bullshit advice have I been eating up these past few years? How do I fill up all those spaces with _meaning_ again? 

"But it's like this. When Martha Stewart got convicted for insider trading, a ton of people like quit buying her shit and watching her show and stuff; but just because she went to jail doesn't change the fact that she makes a killer petit-four."

"You... you lost me."

"Look," Stan said. "Sometimes when something really shitty happens in the present, it can change the way you remember the past. If I were Cartman, and I knew I'd done some fucked up shit, I'd be afraid of going back to the present; I'd be afraid of listening to the tapes, and finding that they're no good anymore, or find that I can't listen to a word without thinking about that fucked up shit. But -- Kenny, I think he still considers you his best friend. And if you think the same, then, you just gotta show him that the past -- all that shit -- it still stands, but you're still -- "

"A petit-four?"

"You're still a damn good petit-four," Stan finished.

"You still listen to Robin Williams?"

"Not much," He admitted. "It's hard, dude. I never said it wasn't hard."


	16. Chapter 16

### The Chariot

"You opened the door." Kenny hadn't thought threatening to come in the window would actually work.

"Isn't that what you wanted." There was a wad of fresh gauze taped to the side of his head. His hair was curled at the tips and dark brown with moisture. 

"I don't believe it -- " Kenny sputtered. "You _did_ have Lotus over! She almost ran me off the damn road on the way in, you know -- "

"Just get in the house, McCormick." He said, turning away. "And close the door."

"Radio silence all fucking month," Kenny said, feeling like he was talking to himself as he stepped up into the dark house. "But not Lotus, no -- _she's_ got all the updates -- "

"I needed help washing my fucking head, alright?" He said from the living room. "I said close the fucking door!"

Just as Kenny nudged the door closed, a liquid flash of gray shot around his ankles and collided with the seam. "What the hell was -- "

"What d'you think? Little shit's an escape artist." 

Worm fled into the living room and settled in a hunter's crouch underneath the coffee table. He was a pair of pale moons on a crooked gray watch-tower. Its big bat ears were angled at Kenny like he was a danger, an invader -- he wondered if Lotus received the same treatment.

"He's _big_ ," He said, unable to look away from the two-month-old kitten quivering in the shadow. 

"Watch this -- "

" _Worm!_ " Cartman barked. The creature bolted from the table and made a flying leap for the window curtains, clawing its way almost up to the ceiling -- and then it hung there, staring. Eric was snorting with laughter. 

"He likes high places," he said. When he moved over to the curtains, Worm plucked at the swaying fabric, pulled his claws free and dropped down to the hockey captain's broad shoulders. Six-fingered paws found purchase in the hood of his sweatshirt. 

Cartman started making his way over to the kitchen with his small glaring passenger. "You want anything?"

Kenny trailed after him, locking eyes with the suspicious pair hovering behind his friend's neck.

Upon entering the kitchen, Worm made another leap, this time for the top of the fridge, and settled there in the shadow to continue staring at them. Cartman turned to lean against the counter and muffled a yawn in his sleeve. He looked cleaner -- but still beat, and sick. 

"You eat anything?" Kenny said, trying to ignore the gray creature's relentless stare. 

Cartman shook his head minutely. "Just got off work."

"I fucking _knew it_ \-- "

"Relax," He said, crossing his arms over his chest. His right hand still looked mottled, but it was at least scabbed over at the knuckles. "We were busy."

"There wasn't a soul besides you two in the whole damn building -- "

"I had mayonnaise hands. It was really unbecoming."

Kenny snorted before he could help it. "You are so full of shit."

Eric smiled at Kenny across the dark kitchen as if they'd just been kicking around together yesterday. It was such a rare expression on him -- blinding, heart-stopping -- but it only served to remind Kenny that he was being ignored, that he was pissed.

"Put some clothes on, dude," He said. "We're going out."

The smile fell away and Cartman looked Kenny up and down. His eyes were brown, brown, brown in the unlit kitchen.

"Yeah? I don't remember making plans with the son of Rambo -- and I don't own any camouflage, unfortunately."

Kenny frowned, shuffled where he stood. "Fuck you man, these are the only pants I have without holes in them -- and you know something, you're not exactly an everyday fashion show, Eric. You got _any_ thing besides hoodies and sweatpants? Hey, next time you go diggin' for hand-me-downs, just jump in the fucking bag -- I mean shit, man, my dad spends his whole paycheck on booze but even he's got more'n two shirts."

Cartman shifted against the counter and angled his laughter into his shoulder. "Damn, Ken -- I didn't open the door just to get _roasted_."

"Why didya then?" Kenny challenged, finally moving further into the kitchen to lean against the island across from his friend. "Hopin' I was Lotus, back for round two?"

"Lotus's car doesn't sound like a bloody spaceship touching down in my yard. And what makes you think there wasn't a round two?"

Kenny had no words.

"I'm kidding, man. Seriously -- I just needed to like, clean up -- "

"Are you saying she came here _just_ to help you shower?"

Eric rubbed the back of his neck. "In a manner of speaking, yeah -- "

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"What's the big deal, anyway?"

"Does 'bros before hoes' mean _anything_ to you? You coulda been fucking _dead_ in this place and I wouldn't know any better. Besides, I can do anything -- well, I can do mostly any of the shit she can -- " Kenny lost steam and fumbled to a stuttering stop. 

Cartman blew a breath out his nose and turned to rustle around in the cabinets. 

" _Ugh_ \-- this tastes like Drain-o."

Cartman glanced over his shoulder, then quickly snatched the mug from Kenny's hand. 

"The fuck is wrong with you?" He said, turning to pitch the rest of the dark liquid into the sink. "Don't just drink anything you see lying around."

"I thought it was coffee."

Eric returned to the cabinet with an exasperated sigh. He plucked a box from the shelf and shook some dry kibble into a bowl on the island. Worm jumped from the fridge back to his shoulder, then touched down on the counter. While it ate, Cartman brushed a hand over the kitten's lightly bumped spine. Kenny moved around to his side so as not to face the cat's pink asshole.

"It's soft," he was saying, as if in a trance. "He's got this weird lumpy fur now."

"I don't wanna touch it."

Kenny shifted his weight from one boot to another, then spoke to fill the silence. "This place smells like an ash tray."

"Better than a big bag of weed."

"Where've you been all month?"

"Medical leave."

"Dude -- how're you gonna... _pass_?"

"I've been turning in work."

Kenny sighed. "Anyway, man, come on -- at least put on some pants. You need to get out of here."

"It's raining. I don't wanna go out."

"C'mon," Kenny said again, edging closer. He reached out and plucked at the soft material of Cartman's sweatshirt -- this one was a red and black hockey sweater, with his name and number on the back. The Park County High colors were blue and yellow, but since he had a hand in managing the team, he got to help design the merchandise; and Cartman had always liked red. "Please? The Murphys don't have anyone comin' down -- and they make a killer turkey soup. It won't make you sick -- I promise -- and we could... we can go, and eat food, and then blow."

"Your hands -- " Kenny clenched his hands into fists to keep the tremors at bay. "What's got you so strung out?"

And it had been so long since someone asked him, and so long since he'd found himself in a quiet, dark space -- Kenny sunk into it. His forehead fell on Eric's shoulder; his good hand toyed with the fringe of the pocket on the front. "Dunno," he mumbled. "Nothing -- everything, I guess. It's just -- it's always so fucking _loud_ in this new lot we moved into; I haven't been sleeping much, and when I do, it's the usual five-thousand miserable deaths before sunrise. I found my mom's stash of pills the other night -- my little sister hasn't spoken a word in like, two years, and I just feel like I'm doing _everything_ I can to -- to pinch at the folds, hold it all together, you know?"

An arm closed hesitantly around his shoulders. Kenny breathed once, deeply, and felt limbless. He hadn't had a hug from Cartman since they were kids, since that kind of shit was _free_. His emotions began to drain away through his toes; it felt like he'd been so restless, so _angry_ , all month -- angry in a fatalist kind of way, detached but all-consuming -- like he knew there was no point to feeling like this, no point in feeling like _anything_ , since all he could do was keep going to class, keep looking out for Karen, keep _going_ even when despair was lapping at his eyeballs... Suddenly Kenny wasn't angry about anything -- not even Lotus, really -- he felt a tiny bit grateful. It didn't matter if Cartman was cut up and pissed off or reclusive as hell or fuckin' _whatever_ \-- he was still Cartman. 

"I heard you told Craig to eat a dick."

"He was wearing a _V-neck_."

"Because he was talking shit about me. Hey, d'you -- " Kenny paused, sniffed. "You really think I'm the best night-creeper in the county?"

"When the arm's better, we'll have another tournament. And you can prove it."

Kenny turned his face into Eric's neck and spoke into the furl of his hood. "I can't believe you had Lotus over here when you knew I was looking for you."

Cartman's deep sigh glanced off of Kenny's eyebrow, and his chest murmured with vibrations beneath his ear.

"You're here now," He said. "I opened the door, didn't I?"

Kenny guessed that was true. He closed his eyes. "You smell like weed," he said quietly. "And Old Spice."

Kenny was shoved away when Eric broke off with an abrupt coughing fit. He turned and hacked into the shadows before finally spitting into the sink. 

"Jesus Christ." Kenny swore, as his friend took deep breaths over the counter. "Have you smoked today, dude?"

"No." He said. "I'm gonna go -- pants."

Cartman disappeared up the dark staircase and Kenny was left in the space formerly filled by his breath. He took his hood down and paced the living room. The house had the smell of a college dormitory -- mostly stale smoke and unwashed clothing -- and the taste of darkness hung thick around him; it was like walking into a cellar, or a subway, and knowing true sunlight probably hadn't touched the place since its construction. Cartman's house was a citadel in suspension; frozen between an inhale and an exhale -- trapped in a state of waiting -- and Kenny's fingers itched to yank the curtains, to bring light in, but it didn't feel like his place.

"Dude," He called up the stairs. "What is this thing on the toilet? I have to piss."

Kenny shuffled hesitantly at the door to the downstairs bathroom and eyed the new addition to the toilet seat; it was some kind of insert filled with sand.

"I'm training Worm to use the toilet," Cartman's voice was behind his shoulder suddenly. "I'm gonna take it out in a couple weeks."

_That is so fucking weird._

"Why? It's gonna save me a buttload of trouble later -- I heard you can even teach 'em how to flush."

"How do I -- ?"

" _How?_ Jesus, McCormick -- just when I'm starting to think you're smarter than they say -- " Cartman took him by the back of the neck and steered him over to the toilet. "Just -- like this -- "

After plucking the tray from the seat, Cartman pushed out of the bathroom with a muttered query about the whereabouts of his shoes.

Kenny pissed, dropped the litter tray back on the toilet, and nosed around while Cartman looked for his shoes. The bathroom was crowded by a laundry rack hung with discarded shirts; if they weren't bloody, they were stained in some other fashion. It was like being in an old person's house; old people always seemed to live half-lives, partly waiting for fate to take its course, and partly allowing themselves to deteriorate. Kenny wrinkled his nose and returned to the living room. 

Eric was a dark silhouette inside the front door. For one bizarre moment Kenny imagined him in the horned mask from Halloween -- and he remembered a dream of some other creature, something more horned and hideous and foreign. 

"Don't you wanna get a coat or something?"

The dark shape shrugged. "I like this sweater."

Kenny snorted. "You like anything with your name on it."

"Hey -- " He said suddenly. "Gimme that arm."

Kenny approached the shadows inside the door and Eric took the offered arm. He heard a rustle and a click. 

"No one's signed it."

Eric looked up at him with the marker cap between his teeth, then fixed his gaze back on the blue cast. Kenny watched his name appear in a few thick swipes of black ink.

"Really? With the dick and balls?"

The hockey captain shrugged again, capped the marker, and threw it into the living room. Kenny went to draw his arm back but was held fast in Eric's grip. 

"One more thing," He said, digging something out of his pocket. "You really need to kick the habit of pawning your shit."

Kenny heard the click of a familiar clasp and the cool slide of metal against the skin of his wrist. He stared at the watch. "I traded it to get my sister's mp3 player back... How did you -- ?"

"Saw it at Groucho's," He said, releasing the arm and turning away to open the front door. "Slimy bastard wouldn't let it go for less then fifty. It's not even a good watch."

"Hey," Cartman paused on the front step and looked over his shoulder. "You wanna smoke b'fore we go?"

"What -- no, dude," Kenny laughed, startled. "We're already gonna be late."

To his surprise, Eric only shrugged his shoulders and hopped down the steps and into the gray rain. "Okay, okay -- just thought I'd ask."

Kenny shook his head and followed after him, unable to reign in the smile biting at his lips. Cartman's cute off-hand stoner antics reminded him of an incident a long time ago, probably in the fourth grade, when the four of them had to write a report on the founding fathers. Except Eric had been so unwilling to read the material, he spent the whole class period fidgeting and making tiny 'myeh' sounds while they studied; then he decided to initiate a 'flashback' to 1776 by jumping into a pool of water with the Tivo, zapping his stupid 8-year-old ass into a two-day coma. 

It reminded Kenny that when Cartman didn't want to do something, he didn't fuckin' do it -- he would do things his own way, or not at all. He knew every by-law in the state of Colorado, and every way to get out of going to class with all the right documents; he was potty-training his fucking cat; and today, Cartman was actually _choosing_ to come out with him.

Kenny climbed into the driver's seat of his truck and turned the key in the ignition, reveling silently in the sensation of having his best friend in the front seat. 

He was pulling out of the neighborhood when he noticed something that snapped him out of his contented reverie. 

"Whoa -- hey, did you change the song? I haven't been able to get that thing to work all year."

The next song after the one about the fucking country road was called the Eagle and the Hawk. It was still John Denver, but it was alright John Denver.


	17. Chapter 17

### Wheel of Fortune

The old woman Murphy's turkey soup was about a hundred parts seasoned broth with a few chunks of dark meat and lost hitchhikers of peas and corn. Kenny was right; the soup didn't make me sick. I made a note to myself to eat like a 70-year-old in the future: it felt like so long since I'd eaten a full meal -- the hockey team's fast food stops unfailingly had me puking, and whenever I scraped together a few wits to make food at home, it was a dark meal of convenience noodles or cereal, things I half-ate over my computer or piano. Sometimes those things came back up too.

Instead of driving around the Murphy property to enter by the road, Kenny had parked at the southern edge and we walked in to save time. After stumping in out of the rain, covered in brown rotted clippings of corn and cane stalks -- and still cursing the gully slime staining my favorite Adidas sneakers -- Mrs. Murphy had hustled us into the warm kitchen. The place was an absolute polar opposite of Mawal's shaded, cat-infested hovel. 

The Murphy's squat, two-story farmhouse was built about a hundred years ago -- or so claimed the proud carving over the front door -- and the only source of warmth was a wood-stove with a long metal chimney crackling in the kitchen. The smell of burning wood always brought up weirdly moving memories of deep snow and dark mornings, warm brick hearths and hot cider. I kind of loved the culture of winter, that way. It was mad, really, because everyone is so pissed in the winter -- most of the time for good reason -- but there was such satisfaction in banishing the cold, smelling a fire after all that everyday anguish. Only kids who grew up in eternal winter really knew how to endure; only when you've risen at the crack of dawn and walked to school knee-deep in snow for months on end could you truly begin to appreciate the power of fire. 

Kenny stood his ass on the ridge of brick around the wood-stove until he was hot to the touch.

The Murphys expected us. The old woman had achieved a level of productivity in one day that Lou and I could hardly manage in a week of service; in addition to the near six month supply of soup, she'd churned out tray after tray of cornbread pop-overs from the conventional oven, together with half-a-dozen vegetable and meat savory pies reminiscent of the times my mother and all our fat fuck relatives managed to get together for the holidays -- but these were better; these were wreathed with the smell of burning wood. 

While we stood half-frozen in front of the stove, the woman Murphy and my best friend shot the breeze like old cribbage sisters; he had a kind of polite, gentle way with old people -- well, I supposed he always had that way about him, but I never saw it more clearly than in the cramped kitchen with the sounds of Mrs. Murphy's hush puppies scuffing busily over the wood floor and the fire pop-cracking behind my knee-caps. It was the part of Kenny beneath the swagger and the crude humor -- the part that had no place in high school; it's what made him so good at sticking to walls and sniffing out secrets; it's what made him love his little sister so unconditionally; and sometimes -- it's what made his hands shake. 

He popped a few conversation starters, dry things about crop yields and how their niece was doing, and Mrs. Murphy carried the conversation the rest of the way in the inexhaustible fashion of an old person who didn't get out that much. Despite her age, Mrs. Murphy's voice was firm and clear as a bell.

Finally the old man arrived with a blast of cold air. Murph's voice was a ratcheting growl with an underlying rhythmic quality that matched his wife's, thanks to their fluent farm dialect. His hands were blackened from decades of hard labor, dented by plough handles and intensely lined -- they looked tough as boat sails. Caught myself wondering if his soul would reflect that hardened, dignified quality. Winter souls were enduring; farming souls were damn-near bulletproof. 

If Kenny hadn't found these people... I mulled over the new environment while we sat down to eat -- there was a lot of new information here to process, stuff that I had ignored in my arrogance in Middle, too busy trying to get a leg in the door of Rainer's drug trade to take notice of my best friend's plight. I wasn't good at courtesy, so I made a poor guest -- a horned shape hunched over a bowl of soup like a moody Poltergeist. But they didn't push me; Kenny made conversation and I was left to my machinations.

The table was right up against the kitchen to make the most of the warmth from the stove. Everything was glowing gold wood surfaces and century-old knickknacks -- it was like looking into a tiny world hidden inside a jar of honey.

Mrs. Murphy knew McCormick well, I noticed. Her seemingly chaotic placement of dishes had managed to put Kenny in unbroken arm's reach of all his favorite food, particularly a dish of mashed sweet potatoes and butternut squash under a layer of lightly charred marshmallow -- it might've been the Greek _ambrosia_ made manifest, the way he was going at it.

I had a horrible habit of selecting things to eat which looked the least unpleasant to throw up; it was soup for me.

The old man Murphy nodded through his meal, then crowed a series of compliments that I could barely decipher through his farm drawl and stood from the table. He planted a kiss on his wife's cheek and departed into the cold once more to "gather the lost geese."

Kenny led the way up a staircase in the center of the house, narrow as a ladder and about as steep as one too. On the cramped second floor he grabbed at a chord dangling from the ceiling and yanked down a tiny fleet of stairs. "Heat rises," he said, by way of explanation.

The attic was musty-warm, lit by the orange glow of a single bare bulb hanging from the rafters and the light from a western-facing window. The sharp angles of the roof made the space seem small, but it was alright. Worm and I were alike in one way, at least; we both liked high places. 

"C'mere," Kenny was saying, loping across the wood floor and popping a squat by the knee-high window.

His mood had turned an absolute 180 since I found him sour and spitting on my doorstep in the rain. As if standing by that fire was enough to charge him up with energy again -- and the calm parental care of the Murphys cut the tremors in his hands. How could I match that? I was perpetual cold -- I smelled like weed and could barely stand to touch him anymore; the Murphys were the fire but I was the deep night. When Kenny left home in Middle he came _here_ , and he was running from _me._

I dropped beside him in silence, trapped in the poltergeist state of mind. Out the window was a view I almost recognized -- a sea of fields spreading across the horizon, and a toothy blue mountain range far in the distance. The rain had shifted west, leaving behind the heavy scent of moisture and a crisp winter wind. It was really pretty lousy weather for a holiday, but the view was clutch. 

Kenny kept smiling -- full of home-cooked food and probably riding the high before a food-coma. I had to squint at him like sunlight, and admit to myself that I wasn't busting my ass to repair his effing soul just because I'd have my best friend back -- I think I was just fuckin' doing it for _him_ , and wasn't that just bizarre. Even if I grew a thousand horns and never returned to the material plane -- as long as McCormick was back whole and happy and looking like this all the time, then that was okay. 

He busied himself pulling a futon from the crooked shadows under the sloping roof and setting it in the light of the window -- then he collapsed, laid out on his back and muttered: "Let's chill here for a bit."

"You staid here," I said. "In Middle."

Kenny lifted up on his elbows and looked out the window, his expression peaceful. "Yeah. Just about a year. Worked for room and board -- this was my room."

He could've been like Axel, I thought. He could've got trapped in the concrete jungle. Instead he found this quiet place.

"C'mere," he said again. 

I stood and joined Kenny on the futon, moving to sit against the wall closest to the window. He rolled around for a bit before sitting up again. I pulled a ball-point pen from my pocket and started twisting off the back end while he stared at me.

I upturned the pen tube over my palm. Instead of an ink cartridge, a long, slim joint fell out. "For real?" He laughed. "Man, you think of everything."

"Hey, I, uh, wanted to ask you something," He continued, leaning over me to slide the window open a crack. 

"I knew this would turn into twenty questions," I said, lighting up the joint and blowing my first breath out the window. 

"Well, I think I deserve at least that much, right? I mean -- " He pulled at the strings of his hood, then pushed it down. "I still can't even explain Halloween in a way that makes any sense."

"That your first question?"

"Yeah," He said, accepting the joint and shifting closer.

"I had a dream. Glass shattering -- took me a couple days to place it. Can't believe you fell in _Keats'_ yard, of all places -- "

"Are you seriously telling me you're having _prophetic_ dreams?"

"I think it's my turn to ask the question."

I forgot what I'd wanted to ask, though. A dozen different things, at first -- then nothing. I looked out the window. A spiraling tower of black rags was rising out of the fields and funneling into the clouds. 

"Where do the crows go in the winter," I muttered, somewhat mesmerized by their rhythmic rising and falling against the white-gray backdrop. 

Kenny huffed quietly. "Those are ravens, dude."

"You are way too poor to be that pretentious, McCormick. How the fuck can you tell?"

"Easy; ravens got pointed tails," he said, planting a hand on the sill and pointing out at the busy black shapes. He was too close to me, again. "I don't know where they fuckin' go, though, man -- what's up with this Holden Caulfield bullshit?"

"I didn't choose existentialism; existentialism chose me."

He chattered a laugh and settled down right in front of me, crossing his legs. I wrested the joint from his hands so he'd stop waving it around.

"You're so weird, man -- I fuckin' love it. Hey -- " He said, eyes suddenly distant. "Stan and Kyle still think you ran the fucking drug ring in Middle."

I coughed around my last toke, and hacked out the window to buy some time. _What the_ \-- "What d' _you_ think?"

"I think you were framed. It's Rainer's business."

"Ahead of the game, as usual, McCormick. When did you figure that out?"

"When he poisoned you with that fuckin' laced marijuana last year."

Oh yeah. That sucked. 

"And I just figgered out one more thing," He continued, taking the joint, gaze filled up with sharp intent. "Kyle ratted on you."

"Holy shit," I said, surprised. "You're _way_ ahead of the game, homie. _Kyle_ doesn't even know that I know that."

Kenny smiled weakly, but remained distant. "He told me about Ax and Ike -- I knew there was no way he'd keep his mouth shut if he thought you were responsible for selling acid to his little brother -- but I don't get it, dude; why did you let that happen? Why do you let him go on thinking that you're responsible for that shit? Why d'you let Rainer _use_ you?"

"Too many questions." 

"And you're gonna give me a straight fuckin' answer, for once," He brandished the burning jay. "Or I toss the rest of this out the window."

I sighed. "First of all -- Kyle can believe whatever the fuck he wants. I knew he'd go to the cops. Secondly -- who d'you think's using who, here? I get 10% of the profits and weed whenever I want it from the arrangement with Rainer; I'm making bank, I've got some weird fucking street cred at school, and I don't gotta do anything but show up to a few fights when he calls."

"Shit," Kenny said, rocking back and forward while he thought it out. "Was it worth it? I mean, your record is trashed, dude -- I dunno how your mom even managed to get you back in the system -- "

I couldn't help it; with the smoke swimming in my eyes I laughed deep and bitter until the rafters rang with it. "My mom didn't do shit -- I got my _own_ ass back into the system. I know too many names, man -- I'm dangerous."

"You _threatened_ the Board of Education?"

"No -- I just promised to hold back some information from the police, on a few conditions. I might not've directly sold the shit, but I made the deals -- and I knew who was buying."

"Shit," He said, taking another hit. "But you didn't answer my question."

Kenny held out the joint to me with the hardest gaze I'd ever seen -- and I'd seen some hard things. "Was it worth it?"

I didn't know. Every time I answered that question for myself, I came up with a different answer. For a moment I watched the joint sizzling between my fingers, eyeing the twisting scabs on my right hand that would mar my knuckles forever. "What do you think?"

"I think it changed you."

I blew a breath from my nose and took my hit, narrowing my eyes at my best friend. He was always saying that. Was I different? _No_ , I kept thinking. Everything is going according to plan. I got everything I wanted out of that deal -- aside from a few unexpected outcomes: my mother giving up, my cat dying, and my best friend running away -- but my head stung, my hands were black with guilt, and I couldn't see myself as anything but a monster. 

"I heard you fought Fichte. Last year."

"You didn't know?" Kenny said, dipping his head and pulling at his hair. "I was so fucking pissed, man. It was probably the dumbest, most reckless shit I've ever done -- that guy is twisted; all you gotta do is double-dare him to kill and..."

"Boom."

"Yeah. I got off at his bus stop, and we fought on the bridge. He -- I got my ass kicked, man -- he had me over the railing, and... and I fucking fell. I thought I was done for, but I woke up further downstream, half-hypothermic, but alive."

 _Interesting_ , I thought, not sure what exactly to make of the new information. Challenging Rainer fucking Fichte to a fist-fight was exactly the kind of ballsy move the old McCormick would've made. But -- it could've been one of the things that fragmented him; soul loss was a bit like post-traumatic stress disorder -- the victim suffers a persisting state of emotional detachment or paranoia following intense physical or psychological trauma. And if it was Rainer's fault, then -- wasn't it sort of _my_ fault?

"Yo, let's -- forget this shit, man. Let's talk about something else. I'm too full of good food to feel this bummed."

I tapped some ash over the sill, allowing my thoughts to drift. They slipped out the window and spread over the fields, reaching for the mountains.

"You still into that Murphy girl -- whatsername -- Helen?"

"Helena," Kenny laughed. "Nah, man -- she hasn't come down to South Park in years."

"Anybody else?"

"Hm? I mean -- no? No, I guess."

"Really? You were so busy in Middle, dude -- fuck, even when we were twelve -- "

"I know, alright?" He cut in, pulling at his hair again. "I'm over all that. It didn't -- it didn't feel good, being with all those people."

I squeezed out a laugh. "Well, as long as you strapped up, I don't see a problem -- "

"No, it wasn't that," He said, avoiding my eyes. "We played by the rules, but for me -- man, after a while I just felt used."

"You? Used?"

"It's just -- I mean, it was kind of obvious those girls just wanted one thing from me -- "

I laughed for real this time. "Don't tell me it's hard being hot."

He smiled without teeth; something was still haunting him.

"What is it?"

Kenny shook his head. "I dunno. The reason I got into that stuff early was because -- because it seemed like the only way to make sense of some shit from when I was a kid."

"We had this babysitter," he continued. "A long time ago, and she always used to make me -- make me take my clothes off. Like, it was always bath-time or changing for bed or whatever -- there was always some reason. But I felt so weird about it."

I didn't know what to do and even less what to say, got kind of angry at the distance in his eyes and thought of the swiftest way to close it. I shifted forward onto my knees and dropped my forehead to his. "I didn't know."

Kenny chuckled nervously, and I felt his hands begin to play with the strings hanging from my hood. "Well, Mom didn't believe me, and I was too embarrassed to tell anyone, so... I dunno, I started leaving the house a lot after that. I think I'm over it."

I offered him the rest of the joint and sat back against the wall. 

"Stan listens to inspirational Robin Williams." He said suddenly, smoke leaking from the edges of a toothy grin. 

I laughed like a damn hyena. "Oh shit -- is he going to get it -- "

He laughed too, then scooted forward to crush the roach on the window sill. The whites of his eyes were a swimmy pink. 

"Hey -- why does your boss call me _fay-an_?"

I groaned. "I've told him not to."

"Well, what's it mean?"

"It, uh -- it doesn't really have a correct translation."

"Then give me a rough one."

"Beautiful eyes."

"Oh," He planted his hands on his crossed ankles and leaned back, looking amused. "Well -- that seems easy enough to translate."

I shook my head. "No, no -- 'cause he _could_ just say 'beautiful eyes,' and it sounds totally different. But with you he doesn't -- he says 非眼. It's just... it's different."

"Well... why's he say that?"

"What?" I said, cracking up at his naivety. "Maybe 'cause you've got a pair of eyes like _shotguns_ , dude."

His lower eyelids curled up into pleased crescents. "So that's what it means."

"Did you just -- " I narrowed my eyes. "Did you just _trick_ me into complimenting you? I shouldn't need to remind you that you're _good_ -looking, McCormick."

He grinned with all his teeth. "But you always say it in the best ways."

I rolled my eyes, deciding to let him have it, just this once, without argument. I pulled my hood up to cushion the back of my head against the wall. Kenny rolled out on his back like a carpet at my side, pushed a hand under his parka to scratch at where the hair creeping down from his belly turned to pubes. Fucking perfect, he was -- if only the world would let him _stay_ that way, instead of plucking and pulling at him, instead of throwing monsters like me into his life. 

"Are you sleeping?"

"Mm," he said.

### Death, Reversed

I opened my eyes in the Middle World, and cursed. I had been hoping that -- in place of an actual mind-body bridge -- a leap of faith might suffice to land me in the Lower World.

Instead, I had landed in the fields again -- it was the first time I woke up immediately in Kenny's Middle World, without having to first crawl on my belly away from the structures of my own consciousness -- I wondered if proximity to him in the material world had anything to do with it. The same pale moon hung over the landscape, its light soft and cool on my eyes. This time, there were still no fires, and yet the ash had also yielded to change; the fields were filled entirely with fireweed. Everywhere I looked the strange blue-purple stalks of flowers stood reaching for the dark sky, so quiet and yet so _busy_. Plants were always a silent cacophony of life, that way. 

I had no breath on this plane, but I felt a deep spiritual sigh beneath the buzz of my skin. It was a marvelous rebirth. I lifted my hands -- but they were blacker than the night sky over the fields. _Oh well_. 

At some point while ghosting over the foreign land, brushing my black hole fingertips over the translucent hanging blossoms, I spotted a moon out of place. No, two of them.

 _No fucking way_. 

They blinked and disappeared. 

"No, wait!" I called, and shot off into the brush. 

I wasn't sure what I was following, but I kept moving. Space was a strange thing in the Middle World; since it was infinite, I had only to imagine myself being at a certain point, and once observing my position in space, I could be there instantly -- but first I had to forget I was a physical thing, a bag of flesh, blood, and bone.

I was entering a wooded area on an upward slope; the undergrowth became so thick and tangled I had a hard time moving through it -- trees and dangling plant-life were catching on my horns and clawing at my face. I stopped and swore, then looked as deeply into the shadows in front of me as I could manage. 

"Worm!" I called. 

And there were his pale moon eyes again, waiting in the darkness. "Can't ya fuckin' -- _help_ me?"

Worm blinked and disappeared again. _Fucking perfect_ , I thought, setting off after him. Of all the fucking animal guides in the spirit world, I have to get the one aspiring to the bloody Cheshire cat.

I don't how long I followed the barely traceable signs of Worm through the wood -- time was another strange thing, here; I was only conscious of the _effort_ it took to keep going.

Space began closing in around me -- the tangled branches and shrubbery I had been stumbling over before suddenly loomed close on all sides, until I was slipping underneath roots instead of stepping over them. My vision was changing, too, growing sharper, penetrating deep into the shadows until there weren't any left; I could hear every movement of the branches overhead, and a distant rushing crashing sound like water over rock. I realized I had become Worm. I was in the Lower World.

With the new freedom of four-legged movement I picked up my pace through the dense, cool forest. The ground still sloped upward -- and I knew the instant I brushed against McCormick's lower consciousness, because the land took on a slight turn of familiarity. It was the smell that confirmed it; the putrid, intense smell of rotting salmon. I was in bear country. Suddenly Mawal's warnings came back to me, and the danger seemed real; I didn't stand rose petal's chance in hell if a fucking _spirit bear_ found me like this -- an untrained soul in a worm's body. 

I ignored the fear that was blowing my cat pupils wide in the clinging darkness, and pushed toward the sound of water. The smell of bear came and went in thick swathes -- to my feline nose it was unbearable; it tickled at my survival instincts, and they begged me to run. 

Finally I saw movement through a break in the trees. A river carved through the forest, and over it hung an utterly out-of-place curving stone bridge, only wide enough for pedestrian traffic, or, in this case, two struggling bodies. 

This was a snippet of memory, I realized, creeping closer. The fight seemed largely one-sided; the taller of the shapes wrestled the other into the railing, pushed forward with a hand on his throat. _How do I stop this?_ I wondered, doubling my pace to the river's edge. Their mouths moved without sound.

I just made it to the bridge when Rainer pulled his hand away and Kenny fell. " _No!_ " I hissed, and angled my cat eyes on Fichte -- but he was gone, just the shade of a memory on replay. So I surged down to the shoreline, followed the current downstream. Kenny said he'd washed up -- so maybe it was just a matter of finding him.

I slowed to a trot when a dark shape on the riverbank came into view. It was distorted slightly; the line of the body was obvious, but perched on its chest was another flickering shape. Once I was in the vicinity, the hawk's eye snapped to me. 

_Fuck_. Worm's body froze. The bird of prey feigned disinterest, turning to scratch under its wing with a wicked hooked beak. Its feathers were splattered with fresh blood; I could smell it from where I stood. Now how did I get its big fucking talons off my best friend's chest long enough to snap him out of it?

I felt a surge of rage and hissed from the shadows on the upper bank. The hawk responded with a flap of its wings. 

Red-tailed hawks were common in Colorado -- they could live almost anywhere and the big bastards hunted almost anything; I'd always been kind of wigged out by birds of prey -- their _eyes_ , those big damn soulless yellow eyes. I watched the Hitchcock film _Birds_ just once and that was quite enough; birds officially scared the shit out of me. I made a decision; I didn't come all this way to turn back. 

I rushed the hawk. It's call was piercing -- I worried it might draw the bigger, badder beasties to the area -- and I realized I needed to end this quickly or both of us would be done for. It batted me aside with a wing much more powerful than I expected (then again, I was in the body of a kitten barely three months old). I slid in the mud and and ran for the undergrowth on the upper riverbank with the hawk on my tail -- I felt the wind from its wings buffeting my sides as it positioned itself above me, preparing to dive. I'd be picked off like a flapping fucking fish if I didn't get it out of the air somehow. 

High places -- Worm and I were good at that. I made a leap for the nearest mottled tree trunk and clawed up to the lower branches. As the hawk angled its wings to brake its speed, I took the opening and pounced at its white breast. We fell in a tangle of wing and claw -- my weight was just enough to bring it down to the tangle of bushes; I pummeled at its feathered belly with my back legs; but it looked like I was only pulling out feathers. The massive bird threw me off and our shadows met for one awful moment over the ground, then it began tearing at my side with its beak. It was trying to fucking _gut_ me. 

_Run, run, run,_ was the advice of Worm's instincts. I rolled and swiped my forepaw at its eye -- then bolted for the treeline again. I pushed through the bushes, this time keeping to the ground, keeping a layer of shrubbery between me and that sharp fucking beak; it had torn open my side pretty good. I felt a flicker of worry for Worm -- but I couldn't do anything about it until I was off this god-forsaken metaphysical plane. 

I made a long loop along the ground, picking the darkest, most tangled thickets, and made a desperate break for the shoreline and the abandoned body. I heard the hawk's screech again. The sickly-sweet rotted scent of bear was being carried down the river. 

I finally made it to Kenny. His legs were still half in the water. I stepped cautiously on his chest, blanching at what I saw -- blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were open, empty, staring at the sky. _This can't be right,_ I thought. He's -- he's _dead_. 

The hawk bowled me over into the shallows just as I realized what an idiot I'd been. 

Thankful for Worm's sleek gray fur, I dodged strikes from the hooked beak and used my small weight to bring the bird into the water with me; its waterlogged wings would slow it down. One of its talons carved at my belly -- I felt it digging open the same wound from before, like it was looking for something. 

The smell was over powering. I noticed a huge hulking dark shape loping along the riverbank towards us. _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_ Worm and I's train of thought melded into one rush of panic. I released the hawk and ran from the water. 

"Come on!" I yowled at the soaking bird. 

When it had crashed out of the shallows, I ran for the trees, leaving the body behind. When I glanced over my shoulder, past the crash of wet hawk's wings I saw the grizzly bear nosing at the body. _Good_ , I thought, leading the way away from the scene. I wasn't here to save the body; I was here to save the _bird_.

It was trapped here, I realized, clinging to that memory but unable to change the outcome; it needed to let it go -- it needed to stop fearing death, stop fighting to protect something that was already gone. 

I turned and skidded to a stop as the hawk came plummeting down after me. "Come _at_ me, McCormick," I challenged in my disembodied voice -- I wasn't even sure if it made a sound. "What the fuck you got?"

The hawk landed on the ground in front of me and stretched its wings to flap away the moisture from the dip in the river. I was splattered with water and blood -- okay, it was actually pretty impressive, that wingspan -- and I still had no clue how to get him to wake _up_ and leave this horrible place. I was getting another dumb idea, though. 

I ran for the nearest tree. It screeched and took flight. I was lucky -- the water was just dense enough to slow it down for me to get one more opening; I played it branch to branch until the bird loomed close enough, then gathered Worm into his hunter's crouch and leapt -- this time landing on its back. 

_The neck,_ I thought. The bridge back to the mind. I bit down hard.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> veerry short installment before the next one. which is long-ish.

### Judgement

I woke up in the attic with a piercing pain in my side and McCormick's cold nose-tip pressed to my neck. 

After checking my side and finding no evidence of the hawk's attack, I set about trying to shift him away from me -- but we'd woken up almost simultaneously, and I held my breath while he slowly regained consciousness.

The first sound of his arrival in the material world was a long, drippy sniff.

" _Ugh_ \-- that's cute, McCormick. Right on my fucking neck."

"Sorry," he murmured. "I think I'm getting a cold."

Kenny sat up on the futon and stretched his arms over his head, rolled out his shoulders. I thought of the blood on his feathers -- how it never seemed to dry. Figures he'd be hiding something so savage behind his blue eyes and blond hair. I sat up with a groan -- the pain in my side wasn't abating; it danced from the lower left to the lower right and back again to the left in piercing, prodding rhythm. It took my breath away for a moment, and I pushed myself back up against the wall by the window to get a handle on the pain.

A bit of music was drifting up through the window from the lower level. Kenny rolled off the futon and crouched in the light, leaning folded arms on the sill. I angled my gaze down to the dirt outside the house to see what he was smiling at, but there was nothing but the glow of a floodlight from the front door. 

"I know this song." He said. " _Sea of Love_. They're probably doing that slow old people dancing thing."

I rolled my eyes. The melody was gentle and easy; a female vocalist faded in and out. It was slowing my heartbeat, though -- and I felt like I could finally ignore the pain in my side. 

"Best thing about the Murphys -- " He said. "Is you never wonder what they're still living for. 'Cause it's obvious."

The sun was starting to settle behind the mountains. We'd eaten on the early side, probably napped for an hour or so -- although I think I'd felt more rested going _into_ sleep than coming out of it -- and the freezing November rain had moved on without us. In the distance, the crows -- _ravens_ \-- were still busy in the fields. 

"What you thinking?" He asked through a yawn. 

"Nothing. Watching the ravens. Do they ever quit fucking around?"

Kenny planted his hands on the windowsill again and shifted his gaze outward. His eyes narrowed on the twisting columns of black-feathered birds. 

"That's an alarm pattern," he muttered. 

I raised an eyebrow. "Uh?"

"It means something's in the fields that doesn't belong," He said, eyes never leaving the bleak winter landscape. 

For a few minutes we watched the birds in silence; I noticed where their array differed from the spiraling column before -- this time they were flocking away in all directions from a point at the northern edge of the field, where the gate to the property was. Then two dark shapes became visible, moving along the ground through the fields in the direction of the farmhouse. 

Kenny began to stand, but I caught him by the hood. 

"What're you doing?" He said, gruff with urgency. "We can have them off at the barn -- "

"No time."

"We gotta warn the Murphys -- "

" _No time_ ," I said, watching the figures' swift advance. They were already ducking and weaving around the line of twisted apple trees alongside the barn. 

Kenny yanked his hood from my grasp. "I'm not just gonna _sit_ here and watch them get robbed!" 

"McCormick!" I barked at him. "I'm trying to _think_ , alright? We don't stand a chance two-on-two -- not with your arm. We need to catch them by surprise."

His eyes were wild, his crooked teeth bared, but he didn't move. 

"They probably think it's just the Murphys," He said finally. "Usually it's just them on holidays, since the family don't come down anymore."

I shifted out of the light of the window and chewed on my thumb-nail, watching the trespassers approach. As they slipped past the barn and closed in on the house, I could start making out the details. Most probably male, both masked in black, no visible weapons. They were probably scavengers -- hoping to catch a few old people off guard and either make a buck on stolen property or else find a hot meal to plunder. Crime always went up on holidays -- it was a classic case of the haves and have-nots. 

" _Now_ , can we -- ?" McCormick whined, restless at my side. 

I looked down out the window; the two fanned out -- one taking the front of the building while the other slunk around the side. 

"Okay," I said. "Now."

McCormick shot off for the stairs, and I hustled after him. He slipped into the shadows beneath the sloping roof and re-emerged with a fucking rusty _sand_ shovel in his right hand, then dropped straight down through the attic trap-door like a night-creeper on a deadly mission. I took the stairs like a normal human being and caught up with him on the second floor landing.

The scavengers had been quiet, but the bangs started from the kitchen. 

I seized McCormick by the hood again as he moved to rush down the stairs. " _Wait_ ," I hissed. If we caught them in the peak of action it would be more dangerous and more destructive for all of us. The best time to catch crooks was right when they thought they'd won.

"What if -- " He whispered, breath ratcheting audibly as he pulled at my grip, indecisive, and looked down the steep stairwell to where the warm light of the wood stove pooled on the bottom floor.

"They won't _kill_ them, man," I said. "They're just scavengers."

"You don't _know_ that!" He hissed back, and finally broke free, taking the stairs in quiet leaps and bounds. 

I followed him quietly as I could. McCormick landed on the first floor in a crouch with the sand shovel held poised behind his back like a fucking halberd or something, eyes trained on where the noises came from the kitchen. I hovered behind his shoulder.

" -- lot of food for just two people," came a stranger's voice. There were a few clangs and thumps, as if they were shifting through the cabinets or the plates on the table. "Thought you said they would be alone -- "

"They don't have any kids -- " came a second, wheedling voice. 

"You haven't met _me_."

The sand shovel made contact with the first guy's skull with a terrific _clang_ and he went down like a rock. 

McCormick turned to the second bandit with a rustle of blood-spattered wings, wings wrought from a terrible youth, his eyes like shotguns -- and the masked figure bolted. 

"I got 'im," I said, shoving past my friend and following the guy out the front door. 

As much as I wanted to stay and fucking bask in the glow of my best friend's savagery, watch him lay out two dudes with a blue cast and a sand shovel and congratulate myself for bringing a piece of his soul back from the Lower World -- I had a hunch about these two, and figured I'd play my part in the escapade. 

The guy was an idiot. He was sprinting along the same path he and his partner had taken into the property, probably trying to get to their vehicle and make his escape -- so I took an alternate route along the opposite side of the barn and followed a diagonal crop furrow to the northern gate. 

Ice hockey was about packing all of your energy into five- and seven-minute bursts -- it was nice to have a chance to do it without thirty pounds of gear on for once. We were bears on the ice -- very dangerous over short distances, but likely to peter out before half-time. 

I pulled out of the furrow by the gate just as the guy was jumping the gully back to the road. 

I wasn't going to make it. 

" _Whitman!_ "

He whirled around, froze. 

_Idiot_. I leapt the gully and wrestled him into the dirt with a rugby tackle Stan taught me; it was about coming in low and getting your opponent by the knees -- both or just one would do -- then lifting them off balance and slamming them to the ground. His head struck the gravel first.

I settled a knee on his chest and peeled off the ski mask. 

"So _this_ is what you do on holidays," I said. "Yeah, sometimes when the hunger gets gnawing I go out hustling old people, too. Wait -- no, I don't. Because I'm not a fucking _bitch_."

"Cap'n -- " Whitman choked around my knee pressing down on his diaphragm. "I -- "

"You're a lot luckier than your friend, you know. Though, I'm sure McCormick would be too fucking happy to put the beat-down on you, too, if I called him over. You see that _sand_ -shovel routine, man? _Fuck_ , if that don't just turn you the fuck on -- " I laughed to the gray skies and increased the pressure on his rib cage. 

"Was that your _brother_ , Whitman? Was that Weasel?" I said, bring my concentration back to the scrawny hound beneath me. "Of course it was -- this is the family business, ain't it? But you picked the wrong fucking farm, this time."

I got sick of his gurgling and lifted my knee enough to allow some words to eke out. "You gonna -- call the cops?"

"I _could_ \-- well, McCormick probably already has. And you've got enough priors to do some time in juvie, don't you? This isn't looking good for you, dog."

"Please -- "

"Don't _beg_ ," I spat. "Have some damn dignity, would you? I'm not gonna call the police. I'm gonna call in a favor."

His eyes were stuck in a comical expression of horror. I had an idea.

###### 

"You didn't see where he was headed?"

"Nah -- I thought he'd bee-line it back the way they came in, but by the time I got to the gate -- not a trace."

"Oh well," Kenny side, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "Least we got the one. And the Murphys are alright -- little shaken; but they on'y got tied up. You were right; it was just a couple scavengers."

"Man," I started, chuckling again. "You nearly fuckin' _brained_ that guy. Did he even wake up before we left?"

"No -- " He said, smiling a little on the sheepish side. "I don't know what came over me."

I did. He was almost whole again -- it was like getting 700 pieces into a 1000-piece puzzle and finally making out the full image. I didn't even feel the pain in my side anymore; it hardly mattered. 

"Yo, I gotta pick up my little sister -- bring 'er home. I'll, uh, I'll drop you at your place?"

I answered the question left dangling behind the curtains. "You wanna come over after?"

"Yeah," He huffed, smiling, his teeth like rough-cut diamonds. "Yeah. But -- my dad's probably gonna take the truck."

"I'll pick you up."

"Okay. Hey, uh -- thanks."

"For what." _For busting my nuts to save your soul?_ I thought. _Or for ripping it apart in the first place?_

"For comin' out, today."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes, sex!

### Temperance

Kenny couldn't stop his knees bouncing the whole way to Eric's place. He fiddled with the water pistol in the cup holder, got yelled at for rooting around in the glove compartment -- "Is this Stan's inhaler? He said he lost this." "Can you _quit_ digging around in my shit for once, McCormick?" -- but Kenny's good mood was too thick to penetrate. Everything wasn't okay, but for once, it felt like it might be getting there. 

The Murphys had sent them off with a ton of food, enough to feed his sister and still stock up Cartman's disturbingly bare fridge, and even though he left her tucked into bed in that hell-hole -- the walls damn-near rattling with noise from the neighbors and their parents' disputes -- and even though he still felt something of the shovel in his palm and the nervous remnants of the attack of the two masked men, Kenny still felt a daring furl of optimism pushing out of his chest. _Was it because of Cartman?_ he wondered. He didn't understand how they could talk for hours and still leave so much unsaid, and even though his old friend was biting back the same old lines with his same old growls -- he was different, different enough that Kenny found himself spilling shit to him that he'd never told _anyone_ before, shit he'd barely had the nerve to admit to himself -- and he felt infinitely lighter for it. Now it was his turn; it was his turn to offer some sort of relief to his best friend, whether the reclusive piece of shit wanted it or not -- but first Kenny had to figure out _how_ exactly he was going to do that. So he would dig. 

Digging around in shit that wasn't his business was Kenny's specialty, and he resolved to keep digging around in Cartman's shit until he brought all that new strangeness into the light -- and then... well, he hadn't thought about what he'd do _after_ that. What did you do with a Rubix cube once you solved it? Sit back and enjoy the pretty colors, he guessed. But -- he didn't want to solve it, really. He just wanted to hold that chaos to him, keep it for himself where nobody else could fucking touch it ever again; because Cartman only seemed to get cut up by the outside world -- physically, but like, psychologically, too, Kenny thought. His mother's abandonment, Kyle's backstabbing, even the fucking hair up Craig's ass were all doing their damage to him; Cartman's wonderful strangeness was sinking down, down, down -- disappearing into cruel self-reflection. Kenny needed to wake it up again, drag him back to the surface and away from the poison left behind by solitude. And if whacking people with sand shovels was what brought him back, cracked him up, put that proud glint in his eye -- then fuck, Kenny would take it up as a fucking career. 

The Volvo smelled like old socks and deodorant -- probably owing to the massive collection of hockey gear taking up the back seat. He hadn't gone to class almost all month, but apparently Cartman was still attending hockey practices and games. It was the middle of the season, and even on medical leave, he didn't duck out. The two sticks leaned and clattered against each other on every turn through South Park's dark neighborhoods.

Cartman -- as usual -- disappeared into the house without turning on a single fucking light, so Kenny was forced to hunt him through the dark, just barely saving himself a cracked tooth on the stairs as he tripped and fell onto his hands behind him. In Cartman's room, the light from a thin crescent moon lit upon the mussed bed and the crooked colors and shapes of the junk on the floor.

"Hey, man," came a low murmur from the desk. "I thought you might be dead."

Kenny flicked on the light.

"Ugh," Cartman sputtered from where he knelt by Worm's box. " _Blind_ me, why don'tcha?"

"I oughta teach you how to use tongue clicks, dude -- it's always so fuckin' dark in this place."

"Shit, yeah. Can you?"

Kenny made his way over to the desk, where Cartman's rolling supplies were laid out on a tray over his laptop. "I could try. We'd have to go up to the gorge, or bear country, maybe."

Cartman snorted. "Fuck that; I'm dropping 'bear-mauling' to the bottom of my bucket list -- that's one thing I really don't need in my life right now."

"I s'pose you've already crossed off 'killer dog-mauling', then."

Kenny was just starting to finger the bindings of a few eerily un-marked texts on his desk when Cartman shoved him aside to pull out the chair. "You got a card?"

He tugged out his driver's license and moved to lean against the window while Cartman fiddled with his rolling papers. In his box, Worm slept curled in a small gray ball, his gray flank rising and falling with the accompanying squeak of a tiny kitten's snore. Before he knew what he was doing, Kenny was squatting next to the box and brushing his knuckles over the lightly rippled gray fur. Worm really was a strange, ugly kind of creature, he thought, but he wasn't so repulsed by it anymore. It was almost -- endearing. 

When Kenny looked up, Cartman was examining his license. "You look kinda baked here, dude."

"I wasn't ready," he said, standing to look over Eric's shoulder.

He hummed, swiped a thumb over the lightly scratched surface of the card. " _117_ pounds," he said, looking up at Kenny and biting his lip as if to hold back a joke.

"You done?" Kenny responded, rolling his eyes.

"You needa fuckin' -- _lift_ , or something," he said, placing the card back on the tray. "Grab the speakers."

Kenny moved to the windowsill to gather up the speaker system, muttering. "We can't all be built like fucking tanks -- "

"Wait -- " Kenny said, interrupting himself. "Are we hot-boxing?"

"Nah, I just thought we'd listen to some tunes in the bathroom," Cartman drawled, leaving his desk and picking up a jug of water from beside the door. He left the room and Kenny heard the shower start across the hall. 

He was just squeezing out when Cartman slipped back in, tossing his sweater on the bed and beginning to undo the clasp on his belt. Kenny hustled out to avoid a punch in the nuts. 

He didn't understand why he was so fucking _nervous_ , suddenly. They'd hot-boxed just the two of them together before -- in cars -- but, did being in a sweaty bathroom together make it different, somehow? He recalled Axel's routine set-up of the speaker system. _Nah,_ he thought. If he hot-boxed in here with _Axel_ then this was nothing but everyday chilling for Cartman. The humidity from the shower left his throat feeling smooth and moist. He swallowed, wiped his palms on his pants, and took off his parka, leaving it on the toilet seat while he shifted in front of the mirror. He guessed he should probably start working out. After leaving work at the Murphy farm, he'd retained some of the musculature of farm work; his arms were still hard and lean -- but he'd probably crumple like paper from a good hit to the solar plexus. Kenny sighed and made a new resolution to take better care of himself. The thing that set people from South Park apart from most of the other kids in the Park County school system was the fact that -- rich or poor, popular or outcast -- anyone from South Park could be counted on to kick decent ass. You just wouldn't make it out of the town alive if you didn't learn how to throw fists. Take Kyle, for example; lots of kids noticed first that Kyle was kind of scarecrow thin, and he was smart -- but if they set a foot wrong they also found out that he _never_ lost a fight. Not once. Stan could lay you out good, and he even forged friendships from brawls the way some dudes did -- but Kyle would make you wish you'd never opened your fucking mouth. 

Cartman entered the bathroom with a joint dangling from his lips and desk chair in hand. Kenny moved out of the way and took his place on the toilet while Eric arranged the room. He'd changed into gym shorts. Kenny eyed up his ice hockey-hiking calves with a starving envy. Wasn't sure he liked the look of the purple scars painting his knees, though.

"Plug this in," He said, tossing his phone to Kenny. "The playlist is already open, just hit it."

As the first song started up, Kenny laughed his recognition; the song was _Shake That,_ probably one of the raunchiest songs off Eminem's earlier discography, and that was really fuckin' saying something. "Eminem today?"

Eric grinned around the joint and took a seat behind the door, stretching his legs out with a sigh. "Sometimes I think I musta been Slim Shady in a past life -- but that can't be right. Maybe we're just twin souls. It's that ugly boy swag, dude; I'm all about it."

Kenny chewed on the inside of his cheek while Eric lit up the joint, just slightly discomfited.

"You're not ugly, dude," Kenny said finally, accepting the pass. "Eminem's pretty hard to look at. But not you." He took a long hit, feeling the humidity push blood to his face. 

Eric was huffing with laughter in that cold, bitter way he had.

"You think I'm fucking with you," Kenny said. "But I'm not. Why is it so hard to believe? Your mom's pretty hot. And your dad -- wasn't he that guy who played for the Denver Broncos?"

"I don't fuckin' know," He said, taking the jay. "All I know is he don't give a fuck, so he's probably just like me."

In a few passes, the air was swimming and Kenny was taking back every bad thing he ever said about hot-boxes. He was warm, relaxed, and already spinning high in the clogged space. And when Eric's red eyes turned red at the corners and they were both breathless laughing like morons -- Kenny finally understood what he'd been talking about last month, about that perfect other thing you could get from sharing a dub with the right people.

"This is Mac," Kenny said blearily, recognizing yet another song on the playlist. This one was -- well, it was raunchy _and_ uncomfortably descriptive -- it was a good song, but Kenny would never play it with his sister in the truck. The opening line was Mac Miller's low drawl: _'Okay your legs, like, slowly open up --'_

"Dude," he said suddenly. "Is this your _date_ playlist? I'm, like, getting horny."

Cartman chuckled around his hit. "Never fails."

"Don't tell me," Kenny spoke around the warmth pooling in his navel. "You play this shit for Lotus?"

"Bitches love this shit."

"No, no _Lotus_ likes this shit, for some reason. Any other girl in our class would just pack up and fuckin' leave -- "

"You're probably right," He chuckled. "Man -- she's got some, some other stuff."

Kenny shook his head at his friend's high-as-a-kite, nothing-answer. He didn't want to think about Lotus. He shifted on the toilet seat, suddenly restless.

"Hey," Cartman said, rising from his chair and seeming to make the bathroom shrink around him. "Come sit up here."

Kenny raised an eyebrow but obliged, figuring his friend had to piss or something. He slung his parka around his neck and hopped up to the sink counter, scooting back until the backs of his knees hit the lip of the marble.

But Cartman didn't have to pee. He was moving forward, pushing himself between Kenny's knees until his toes thumped against the cabinet beneath the sink. "What are you -- "

"Show you a proper blow-back," He was muttering, lifting the joint to his lips. 

Kenny could feel his heartbeat change rhythms beneath the foggy high. He watched his friend's blood red eyes fall half-closed and his chest swell -- then he leaned down and touched his forehead to Kenny's the way he had before, in the attic -- Kenny tipped his jaw and prepared to take the exhale. They were a perfect machine; the timing was spot on, and he felt his lungs fill with Cartman's breath. Except, half-way through Eric swayed too close and their mouths made glancing contact -- Kenny lost his concentration but managed to clamp down on the hit, then blew it out his nose the way he usually did. 

Cartman's forehead remained against his, both of them faintly moist from the humidity. "Here," he said, pushing the last of the joint into Kenny's hand. "Don't fuckin' -- do blow-backs with Stan anymore."

Kenny lifted the joint to his lips for something to do -- he was aching to touch him, but his left arm was trapped in a brace and his right busy with the burning dub, so he moved just slightly forward, bobbed his knees against Eric's hips. 

Cartman's hands were free. They skittered over Kenny's knee-caps and then moved behind him on the counter. He felt one of them push under his wife-beater and begin tracing along his spine.

Kenny pushed against his friend's forehead and angled his head; Eric opened his mouth and this time Kenny exhaled for him. Just when he was wondering if he had the balls to or not, Cartman made the decision for him and pushed forward, connecting their lips firmly while his hand applied pressure to his lower back, pulling Kenny closer to the edge. He felt battered by a riot of sensations -- like a flower reaching for the sun, suddenly finding itself enveloped in flame -- it was so much all at once; his horny-high was a hot fog in his head and a fucking supernova between his legs -- and making it all worse were the few points of contact between himself and his best friend: he was knees to forehead buzzing with proximity, and burning up where his mouth crashed against his.

Kenny hummed his disapproval when Eric broke away, but watched mesmerized as he blew out a long trail of smoke.

"That was the hottest blow-back I've ever done."

Cartman grinned wide and easy, drawing his hand away to rub at the back of his neck, like he was nervous or something. Kenny suddenly wanted to put his hands all over him. He eyed the simmering joint in his right hand, took one last hit and tossed the stub into the sink behind him, then locked eyes on Cartman. He felt the exact moment his friend started to shift backward -- Kenny caught him with his knees. 

"Oh, no you don't -- " He said, slinging out his right arm to hook it around his neck. "Fuckin' run from _me_ , man, I'll fuck you up."

Eric relented, dropped his forehead back to his; Kenny breathed a sigh of relief when the closeness returned. He pushed his hand up through Eric's thick brown hair -- didn't realize how long he'd been wanting to fucking _do_ that. He gripped the shorter tufts at the back of his head and pulled gently, just moving in for another kiss when he caught some words passing between them: "Is this a dream?"

Kenny laughed. "You dream about _kissin'_ me?"

"Only once," he said, thoughtfulness in his half-closed eyes. 

"Did we piss our names in the snow afterward?"

The eyes snapped open all the way. Kenny waited while Cartman ran through his mental calculations, using the time to mess with his hair, trace his ears and draw lines up his neck.

"You little shit," he said finally. "You were in my Middle World! You're s'posed to _ask_ first -- " 

Kenny chuckled. "Your what? Dude, I was just dream-walkin' -- how was I s'posed to know it was _your_ dream?"

"How d'you even know how to do that -- ?"

"Homie," Kenny deadpanned, brushing the pad of his thumb over Eric's cheek, where a few barely-noticeable freckles gathered beneath his eyes. "Sixteen years of nightmares and I'm bound to learn a few tricks. I went home that night, remember? But then, I guess -- "

"You came right the fuck back," he growled. "I spent all this time thinking I took advantage of some _projection_ of you -- "

"Yo, pretty sure I initiated that one." Kenny said, releasing his hold and planting his hand on the counter behind him. He leaned back against it, and was pleased to note Eric swaying forward, like they were tethered.

"I don't get it, though," he went on. "Was it your dream, or mine?"

" _No_ -body's. I was practicing getting in and out of the Middle World -- it's where the dream consciousness goes to sort out its shit, you know? And inside it are a bunch of different levels of consciousness both personal and universal -- but you, you went into mine, you fuck!"

Kenny couldn't can his laughter to save his life. "Eric -- this is really interesting and all -- but can we, maybe, talk about it later?"

"Then, what'you wanna do now?"

"The fuck d'you think? You got the fucking date track on, so let's make it worthwhile."

"You wanna -- with me?"

"Is there anyone else in here with me, man? What -- you wanna like, beat off without looking at each other, or something?"

"...With _me_?"

"Fuck yeah!" Kenny crowed, suddenly never more sure of anything in his life. 

Eric reached over to open the cabinet above the toilet. "All I got is -- all I got is the shit I whack off with."

"What is it?"

"K-Y," He said, frowning at the label on the bottle.

"Not the -- the tickly kind?"

"No, I only made that mistake once; shit was like sticking my dick into carbonated soda. This is just, the regular kind. But, you think it's safe to... ?"

Kenny snorted. "What -- yeah, of course. I mean, if it's good for girls... Honestly, I'm flying a little blind here. I've never even been anywhere near first base with a dude."

"Me neither. But I know enough, I think." Eric said, closing the cabinet and moving back between Kenny's legs. "I hope you're really baked."

"Well, I know I'm horny enough to start sending dick-pics to Stan again."

Cartman stilled. "You sent dick-pics to _Stan Marsh_?"

"Yeah? What? He's got that, like, perfect porno body -- I was just curious if he'd be into it."

"Was he?"

Kenny chuckled again. "I think I shocked him real good, bro. He, like, couldn't look at me for a week. Stan's kind of a flower."

Cartman bit his lip. His hands were roving indecisively at the bottom of Kenny's shirt, tracing the line where his pants met skin.

"Yo," Kenny said. "Don't overthink it. I can see you, fuckin' _thinking_."

"Can't help it."

Then: " _Stan?_ "

Kenny groaned. "C'mon, man -- I'd've sent 'em to _you_ if I didn't think you'd pop my fuckin' head open for it, not to mention you were busy ignoring my existence at the time."

One of his thumbs dipped beneath the waistband and passed over Kenny's hipbone. His other hand joined it on the opposite side; Cartman tested the leverage, pushing at the knobs of bone until Kenny swayed. "When was this?" 

He shrugged. "Sometime in the last year, probably. Listen, man, can we -- "

"I'm not -- _cool_ with that." Cartman said.

Kenny almost laughed, incredulous. "Oh-ho, I see -- " His breath hitched just slightly when a hand started creeping up his chest, but he recovered in time to retain his anger. "So _you_ can bang Lotus every other weekend, but it's not cool if I shoot a dick-pic to Stan on a fuckin' lonely night."

"Those're two totally different things," He said, red eyes swimming close through the humidity.

" _What_ \-- no they're _not_ \-- !"

"She reminds me of how you used to be," He murmured, nosing up against Kenny's neck. It seemed his only goal was to tear Kenny's breath up with anticipation, not do a damn thing, and get away with -- with this _Lotus_ shit. 

"How is that, exactly?" All he knew about Lotus was that she'd basically CEO'd Raisins when she was barely out of elementary school, and she drove like she was the only one on the damn road. Oh, and she was apparently turned on by Eric's determined-to-piss-you-off attitude.

"Well," He said, and Kenny felt the sharp scrape of teeth against his jaw. "She's a babe."

"That's it, you've officially killed my boner."

But when he moved to close his legs, Cartman's hands fell to his ass and forced him forward until they were chest to chest and -- and Kenny felt a very obvious hardness bump against his leg. "Whoa," he breathed. "This music gets you going too, huh?"

"Did I actually kill your boner?"

"Mostly," Kenny grouched. "I keep thinking about Lotus."

"Don't," He said, and kissed him again. 

The sun was kind of rising behind Kenny's eyeballs, but he couldn't focus. The counter was a suspiciously convenient height; did he have Lotus here, in the same way? Eric bit down on his lip. _Did they_ \-- Kenny had a sudden horrible thought: Did they start making out with _blow-backs?_

"Ouch," Kenny pulled away. "Quit biting."

"Then let me put my tongue in your mouth, McCormick."

"Jeez, you really know how to romance a guy."

His smile was predatory. "I really don't."

Kenny refused to be charmed. "You do blow-backs with Lotus?"

"Lotus doesn't touch my face."

"Uh -- what, really?"

He shook his head. "I have rules. We both do."

Okay, so his boner was very much not dead -- and now, the prospect of having _special access_ to Cartman thrilled him even more than the initial prospect of having sex with him, which was really fuckin' saying something, since Kenny was unsure where the THC-high ended and the anticipatory horny-high began.

"I wish I had two arms," He sighed, reaching out to rope his friend in again with his good arm around his neck. 

This time they met open-mouthed and Kenny sunk into the heat of touch. He couldn't pull his hand from his hair; there was always someplace softer or someplace unexplored that he needed to grab and pull at. He didn't know the kinds of things Eric preferred -- so he let him take the lead in their battle of tongues. It seemed like he just wanted to explore the territory, though; in particular the side of his mouth where he knew one of his canine teeth jumped jaggedly out of the line-up -- the one Kenny spent the better part of grade school learning to hide. He almost closed his mouth when he felt Cartman shifting his attentions -- but after another bite to his bottom lip Eric attacked the area.

His tongue was mean; his hands might've been meaner. They sought out all the most sensitive parts of him, striking with a deadly accuracy and punishing roughness; the pad of a thumb scraped over the delicate ring of flesh around his nipple -- then the hand skimming around his navel yanked at the trail of pubes leading to his crotch. Kenny cut the kiss with a sound like something being pulled from the womb on a rainy Monday. It was pretty unattractive, if he had a mind to reflect on it later.

"Shit, Cartman, can you -- ?" Kenny said, with real words. "I can't breathe."

He broke away with a _mack_ ing sound and retired his hands to Kenny's hips. They were rocking, gently. "You good?"

"Yeah, yeah -- just, been a while, I guess." Kenny half-lied. It _had_ been a while but he'd _never_ experienced shit like this.

Cartman shuffled away, leaving the ghost of a hand passing through his hair -- and Kenny heard the shower stop. He tried to breathe slow and deep, though all the blood was in his dick and he might as well've been paraplegic the way he was stuck to the counter. The cabinet over the toilet opened again, then Eric was sliding back between Kenny's legs and tossing a condom beside the sink to join the K-Y. 

Kenny stuttered a laugh. "You 'fraid of gettin' me pregnant, dude?"

" _No_ \-- " He said, picking the joint from the sink and eyeing up the last half-inch, which Kenny had accidentally thrown aside in his... rush. "But I have a natural, human fear of diseases."

"You could just pull out."

Eric lit up the stub and inhaled, left it hanging from the corner of his mouth as he resettled his hands on Kenny's hips. "Do I look like the kind of guy -- who likes cleaning cum off the walls?"

Kenny giggled; he guessed not. Since his wife-beater was shoved up around his armpits anyway, Kenny shrugged out of it, shaking it over his flex-brace while Cartman watched the show. 

"Hey, um -- " He reached out as far as he could -- which, thankfully, didn't need to be far at all -- with his broken arm and plucked at the fabric of Cartman's T-shirt. 

His friend's head dipped to eye the cast and brace. He lifted one of his hands and turned Kenny's arm over so his name showed under the fluorescent lighting. Did this guy plan _everything?_ Kenny found himself wondering. He pulled at the shirt again.

"Really?"

"I'd kinda like to _look_ it you, man," Kenny said, rolling his eyes. 

" _Me?_ " Eric muttered again, but he took the joint between his fingers and pushed the filter between Kenny's lips, then turned away and ducked his head to pull his shirt off, flinging it on the floor. Kenny took the last hit and flicked the roach into the sink again, then squinted through the lingering mist of smoke and moist air. He swore.

"What the hell _happened_ to ya?"

All along Eric's rib cage was a mottled pattern of old bruising -- the discoloring ranged from browns to pale green, trailing from his lower ribs around to his back. Kenny reached out to pass his hands over them as his friend returned to the counter. 

"Usually it's the stuff you don't see that hurts the worst," He said cryptically. "But it's hard to pick a winner this time."

Kenny lifted his eyes and scanned his face, tracking not only the gauze over the side of his head, but the scabbing through his eyebrow and the big patch just under his jawline where Kenny guessed the lower incisor of the dog had lodged. "I'm -- not cool with this."

"Not now, aight?" He said, looming in close, nosing around Kenny's jaw again, right where it joined up with his ear. "I know I look like shit."

"It's not that, just," Kenny huffed, his good hand tracing along Eric's collarbone. "I'm not sure I like where this high pain tolerance thing is going."

"You're pretty hairy," Kenny followed up, illogically. As usual, the high had his thoughts jumping rail-cars erratically in his head -- but they all seemed to be going the same direction. He sifted his hands through the brown hair spread between Eric's pectorals, then skated them down his abdomen, followed the trail of hair from his stomach, then parted ways to explore where the crests of his hips angled downward into two diagonal furrows disappearing beneath the line of his shorts. "Right iliac," he murmured, pressing his thumb to the corresponding groove. "Left iliac."

"Mm, talk dirty to me," Eric said, dripping sarcasm. "Tell me, did you start paying attention in Anatomy before or after the gummy bear incident?"

"Anatomy's important, dude. If Red had her way, we wouldn't know the anatomy of our own dicks -- "

"Yeah, well, maybe you can give me a review," he said, fingers suddenly finding the button on Kenny's pants.

When the button popped free, he paused with his hand on the zipper, looked up to lock eyes with Kenny even though he was pretty sure he was swaying back and forth at this point, in a state of hungry waiting. "Can I?"

A laugh ratcheted up out of his throat. "You askin' my permission? Wow."

But Eric's aura was expanding around them, and he leaned forward to press their foreheads together once more; Kenny remembered earlier that evening, when he told him about his crazy babysitter. A thin fluttering of nerves that he'd barely noticed sitting in his throat finally ceased their flutter, sinking down and away. 

Kenny pushed forward to peck at the corner of his friend's mouth, then shifted his hips. "Yeah, go on."

Cartman hooked his thumbs under the band of his pants and shorts and pulled while Kenny shifted his weight to help shimmy out of them. He felt Eric's fingers trace around the pubic hair at the base of his cock while he kicked his pants to the floor. 

At a tug to the curly blond hair, Kenny almost jumped, hissing a breath through his teeth. "I don't know if you know this, but those are really fuckin' sensitive."

"I just like to watch you squirm," He said, releasing the hairs and reaching for the K-Y. He flicked the cap open and sniffed at it, then held it under Kenny's nose. 

"No, yeah, I've used this before," Kenny said. "It doesn't smell bad."

Eric shrugged one shoulder and turned some of the lubricant onto his palm. "It's so weird being this close to someone else's dick."

His hand was on him before Kenny could respond. He groaned and dropped his head on Eric's shoulder. "Man -- girls can't -- give hand-jobs."

He snorted, moved his hand in long firm strokes -- pulling at the foreskin just enough to coax continuous sounds from Kenny. "You 'avent been with the right girls."

"I had a dry movie theater hand-job once," Kenny breathed, relaxing as the hand left his dick to begin coating his balls with the slick gel. "Nearly -- _huh_ \-- had me in tears. We went to see _Dear_ fucking _John_ , on Stan's rec of course. She just thought I was really moved."

Kenny lifted his head as Eric's shoulders began to shake with laughter. "You -- " He reached for the K-Y bottle again. "You poor son of a bitch, McCormick. Jesus -- "

This time he took his time working the lubricant over his hand. Kenny eyed up his friend's long piano-fingers with whole new intent, and a flicker of trepidation. 

He sniffed his hand. "You think this shit -- tastes like anything?" 

Eric dropped his head and had the tip of Kenny's cock in his mouth before he could choke out a response. He wrapped a hand in his hair. "Dude -- if you do that, I'm gonna -- " Kenny broke off when Eric hummed and dipped further down. He didn't notice the probing finger until it traced his asshole twice and sunk in to the knuckle. 

"It really doesn't taste like anything," Cartman, said, returning to eye-level. "Hey -- you like grapefruit? I heard there's -- "

" _Fucking A,_ " Kenny gasped. "What did you just -- _do?_ "

The finger twisted and crooked again, and the same starburst of pleasure flashed behind Kenny's eyes until he felt blinded with it. " _You're_ the one with the hard-on for anatomy, dude." He said. "Pretty sure that's your prostate. That's why people have gay sex."

"They didn't go over _this_ in class -- " Kenny said, shifting forward over the edge of the counter to allow him a better angle. "By the way -- do I taste any, uh, different from Butters?"

"Oh, _fuck_ you, McCormick, you guys will never fucking let me forget that, will you?" He said. "Yes, I mighta had Butters' 8-year-old friggin' weiner in my mouth, but at the time, it seemed really humiliating for him. Hey -- relax, will you? I'm putting another one in."

"I'm trying," Kenny said, voice tight. "It's just -- kinda different."

"Relax," He said again, biting at Kenny's bottom lip while he tried to focus on breathing. "Let Slim Shady talk you down."

Kenny squeezed out a laugh, and slowly acclimated to the feeling of Eric's fingers moving inside him. The other hand had returned to grip the base of his cock, sliding up it once in a while in lazy pulls. 

"Again with the -- biting," Kenny murmured, trying to lure his friend into a proper kiss but getting snapping teeth instead. 

"How high are you?" Eric was asking, and Kenny heard the rustle and tear of a wrapper. 

"Don't pull me down, with your stupid questions," He said, feeling at once languid and bound tight with unreleased wanting. 

He finally got the connection he was looking for when Cartman's mouth crashed down on his again, but he could only enjoy it for half a second before the larger material world problem of fitting a dick in his ass became clear. 

"Shit, man," Kenny said, bracing himself with a hand on Eric's shoulder. "I dunno about this."

"Maybe I should -- " There was a clack and another addition of K-Y lubricant. 

"Alright," He said, re-positioning. "This should work. Nine out of ten cases of gay sex are successful, I hear."

Kenny suddenly remembered when the four of them played World of Warcraft for seven weeks straight to level up high enough to save the World from a player-killing douchebag. And of course, Cartman led them to victory.

"That was good shit," Cartman laughed. "Though I personally enjoyed the console wars more -- computer gaming is so _shallow_."

"I can dig out the wig again."

"No, man -- it was cute before, but I don't think you make a good chick."

"Take that back." Kenny said, eyes narrowing. "I was a fuckin' _dope_ princess, and you know it."

Cartman matched him with his laughing red gaze. "You're fucking with me, right? No, wait -- I'm fucking _you_."

Kenny's concentration broke and he groaned. "Is that your dick or your fucking arm, man?"

"Almost there. You good?"

Kenny managed a nod. He curled his good arm around Eric's neck and pressed his nose to the tousled hair over his ear. Hands swept up his sides and then gripped at his hips. "Ready?"

"Move."

It was the third or fourth of Eric's shallow starting thrusts that struck again at his prostate, and Kenny whined long and low into the shell of his ear. Their chatter fell by the wayside as their movements acquired a rhythm -- Kenny held his grip on Eric's neck, and after starting at his hips, one of Cartman's hands shifted to brace Kenny's lower back while the other found better leverage on the lip of the sink. His heavy breaths hit the side Kenny's neck and shoulder, and occasionally snippets of random thought left his mouth or entered his ears.

He didn't realize he'd almost bit through the skin of Cartman's ear to keep his voice under control until he tasted blood on his tongue. But when he lifted his head, Eric slammed into him with a heady grunt and the resulting sensation ripped a moan from deep in Kenny's chest, then rippled outward along each of his limbs till his toes curled. Kenny realized he came first. 

He slumped down over the hockey captain's shoulders once more, and listened to his friend's breaths grow quick and shallow -- then almost imperceptible as he climbed to his release. The rhythm faltered and his whole body shuddered against Kenny, coming with a moan muffled against his throat. He rode out a few more thrusts, gradually slowing to a stop. Kenny faltered over an intelligible piece of information and simply mewled into Eric's ear.

He heard the snap of the condom and the rustle of the trash bin, then the cabinet opened. Kenny leaned back on his hand and kicked his heels numbly against the cabinet. _That was good,_ he kept thinking. _I can do anything Lotus can._

Eric swam back into his vision, pushing an arm into his shirt-sleeve. "Here," he said, taking Kenny's hand and dropping a couple pills into it. "Ibuprofen. You'll probably thank me later. Or wanna brain me with a shovel."

Kenny would shovel someone down every day if _this_ was the outcome. He swallowed the pills with a pull from the water jug while Cartman rooted around on the floor. "Hang on," he said, taking the chair and slipping out the door. Kenny plucked some tissues from the box over the toilet and was wiping the excess K-Y from his set up when Cartman returned. "These are from Middle, so -- actually, my ass was probably -- nah, shit I've got a hockey ass now. But -- err, hey, you good?"

He advanced, took the tissues from Kenny's hand and tossed them in the bin. Kenny pushed his forehead against his friend's temple, forgot about his teeth and grinned unrepentantly. Eric huffed a laugh and pushed him away, but not before catching his mouth right over his canine again with a brief press of his lips. "I fucking love your fucked up teeth."

Kenny managed to get his shirt around his neck and kick his numb legs into a pair of P.C. Middle sweatpants when Cartman suddenly flipped the toilet seat and fell to his knees.

"Eric?" He said, hopping off the counter and limping over to put a hand on his hunched back. He got a look into the bowl and -- "Is that _blood?_ "

Cartman leaned away from the toilet, his face pale and clammy, red eyes only half-present, and a hand clutching at his side. "Call Mawal," he rasped. 


	20. Chapter 20

### The World, Reversed

I woke up in a Hells Pass Hospital room -- with a red-eyed beast inches from my face. 

" _Fuck._ "

The cat turned in a flash of long gray fur and left the bed. The room was grayed by the shades over the window, thankfully; my eyes were just barely beginning to distinguish shapes, and definitely couldn't handle the atrocities of modern-day fluorescent lighting. I felt curiously numb below my waist, and the slight tension of an IV needle in the underside of my elbow. Memories fell like sand through my synapses -- 

"What _'appened?_ "

"Acute appendicitis. An emergency appendectomy was performed this morning. Around 3, perhaps."

I leaned my head back against the pillows. So _that's_ why my abdomen feels like a stiff fucking sock. 

"A souvenir from your journey to the Lower World, I suppose?"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know," I snapped, finding the shadow of the woman Mawal in a chair against the opposite wall. 

"I told you it would be dangerous."

"Oh -- effing -- _spare_ me, would ya?" I said, ripping out her fake IV needle and watching my human arm become black against the bed sheets. "What've they got me on?"

"A morphine drip. Fairly standard. They'll give you some Percocet for the road, I'm sure."

"Sweet -- can _oxy_ get me to the Upper World?"

"It's not that simple. There are very few ways to get to the Upper World."

"Well, give me the briefing while I'm bed-ridden, would you? And do me a favor and skip all the red-flag _you might die_ bullshit."

"It's not simply that you might; you _must_." 

"Huh? No -- you've got your lines crossed; I need to go to the hippie-dippie spirit world -- not the afterlife. All the books say the Upper World is where all the wise-ass spirit guides are."

"Sure -- but, unfortunately, Eric, I can't tell you how to get there."

"I told you to skip this shit, remember?"

"Not just because of the danger it poses to _you_ \-- which, I don't believe you quite understand, yet -- but I'm going to have to stop your foray into soul retrieval here. There are greater forces at work; your friend -- he is something of an imbalance."

"Wha'd'you mean?" _And what force is greater than_ me, _on a mission?_

"What're you talking about?" I tried again, when she didn't answer. " _You're_ the one who put me on this path -- if it weren't for you, with those fucking books and your cryptic fucking advice, I wouldn't even be _doing_ all this. You _wanted_ me to look for him."

"I was... curious. As you know, the material world persists in a state of energetic balance, wrought from constant exchange between two infinite fields of potential and probability; should something disrupt this interchange, it would make ripples throughout the entire shared consciousness of the the three realms. I was already attempting to track down the source of the imbalance when I first met you. Your friend -- he has no natural place in the material world. His passing is imminent."

"No natural place in the -- " I shook my head, black skin buzzing. "Who the fuck are _you_ to decide?"

"Eric, calm down, please. In this case, letting nature take its course, take his life -- it's the only way to set his soul to rest. There are things at work here that you couldn't understand -- "

" _Try_ me."

She sighed. "The soul you've been hunting is fragmented, yes, but I believe it is also borrowed. Your friend should be dead, as of one year ago, perhaps even earlier."

"How do you -- " Then a powerful scent filled the gray hospital room and it all clicked. "The grizzly bear. That was _you_. You _used_ me to invade his consciousness -- "

"I needed to confirm my suspicion, you see. The problem is, Eric, the soul wasn't simply distorted, it was _killed_ \-- but, somehow, a deal was made. Instead of dying in the river that day, your friend seized a non-material potential and made it reality; he changed his fate."

" _Fate_ ," I spat. "That's fucking stupid. Are you telling me I've been collecting the pieces of a _doomed_ soul? Is he going to jump off a fucking bridge the second I put it all together?"

"Remember I told you," She said slowly. "That it takes an enormous energetic payment in order to borrow enough Potential to adjust the temporal present. In order to balance his continued existence on this plane, all of your friend's other potential futures are being systematically destroyed -- only by erasing these 'strings' of Probability can he continue to pay for his life here. Think of it like this; are you familiar with Schrödinger's thought experiment?"

"The one with the cat?" I said, somehow unsurprised.

"Right; Schrödinger places a cat into a box along with a vial of poison. Until someone opens the box to observe the outcome, there are two potential realities: a dead cat, and a live cat. In the reality where the cat consumes the poison, there is a _non_ -material reality in which the cat lives. But if the dead cat conducts a deal on borrowed energy to save its life, then the non-material live cat must be killed in order to maintain energetic balance. Understand?"

"So -- for _this_ Kenny to live," _Mine_ , I thought dimly. "He has to die in a bunch of other potential futures? So the dreams are -- ?"

"A form of energetic payment for the traded reality," She said. "I would be surprised if _any_ soul could be whole again after enduring so much."

"You've been surprised before," I said. "If I get everything back together again, then maybe -- "

"He would still suffer, and possibly fragment again. It's a difficult debt to repay -- and it will rip and tear at him until balance is restored, one way or another."

 _One way or another_ , I thought, _Meaning even if I put the whole puzzle back together, the little shit will swallow a gun just because the universe_ demands _it._

"Eric -- there isn't always a perfect solution."

"What if somebody else pays they debt?"

She shook her head, just faintly clanging with jewelry. "It can't be done. Only the affected soul will experience this suffering; there is no mechanism by which another could take on the payment."

"Then _why_ am I having these dreams?"

Darkness was creeping in around the corners of the room and suddenly the woman was standing, and her gray eyes angling down at me -- marred by that single splotch of orange. "What kind of dreams?"

"The kind where I'm _watching_ him fucking die every single night."

She twisted her rings, appearing thoughtful. I eyed the pentagram on her little finger again. Something about it disturbed me. 

"The symbol of the Triple Goddess," she offered, centering the silver ring. "It signifies the three stages of womanhood: the maiden, the mother, and the crone -- she is seen in the phases of the moon, often depicted with her consort and counterpart: the Horned God. According to legend, the Horned God is borne by the Mother, impregnates the Maiden, dies, and is resurrected on the Winter Solstice."

"Are you coming on to me?"

Her off-balance eyes found me in the darkness. " _'In the name of the Lady of the Moon, and the Horned Lord of Death and Resurrection.'_ "

I realized that she was back to her wrinkled old age today; she was the crone -- a model of decay. I suddenly felt like things were coming to an end for me.

### Judgement, Reversed

I tried to keep an eye on the glove bobbing in front of me, but some sweat circled my eyebrow and dripped into my eye and I squinted just in time to receive a quick jab to the mouth. I ducked my head and went in for a grapple around my opponent's middle, but before I could get a hand behind his knees, his stance shifted, an uppercut knocked my teeth together, and with one more pivot my back hit the mat. Again.

Kyle's eyes were dark honey. And massively unimpressed -- moreso than usual. 

"Look -- " He said, holding out his glove. "I love kicking the shit out of you, I really do -- but we've gone seven rounds and I'm starting to feel like I've got an unfair advantage."

That was a fucking laugh, I thought, grasping his glove and pulling myself up from the floor. Broflovski was barely pushing Featherweight class at 60 kilos -- I was probably closer to Welterweight at 70. If anyone should have an unfair advantage in our fights, it would be me. 

Kyle and I started going to the same gym a few years ago by accident. At the time, I had to get my fuckin' weight up on the block or else risk getting ghosted on one of Rainer's raids, and Kyle -- well, Moustaphe's shithole was the cheapest gym in town so the Jew was probably just looking to save a buck.

"One more," I said, moving stiff-legged to my corner of the ring and downing the rest of my water. "Bushido rules."

"I'm not going another _minute_ with you, fat-ass. You're half fuckin' dead."

"Perfect time for a come-back. Like Rocky."

"Rocky _lost_."

"Muhammad Ali, then."

"Neither of those two fought MMA."

We connected again in the center of the ring, a flurry of pushing gloves. I managed to match his jabs with my own and we broke off to circle. His right glove kept up its bobbing routine, blocking my view of his face and making for a distracting target; it was an annoying strategy some MMA fighters used to avoid betraying their plan of attack with eye movements.

His knee lifted and I moved preemptively to block, but the kick never came; I took another jab across the jaw. I growled around my mouth guard -- he wasn't even fuckin' _using_ his dominant hand, the dirty southpaw. 

I feinted a couple times while we circled; he dodged a jab and ducked my cross, and when all my forms failed I moved in with a kick. Kyle caught me by the heel and lifted me off balance with a jerk. My back slammed into the mat and he delivered a few quick knocks to my head. I swung at him from the floor but he grabbed my wrist with one hand and used the other to take my littlest finger and twist sharply.

"This is pathetic," he said around his guard.

"Small joint manipulation," I gritted. "Is _illegal_ , Kyle."

The pain was incredible -- and he was only holding a _finger_. "Where the fuck did you -- _ugh_ \-- learn that?"

"Moustaphe's offering classes in judo now. It's all about using your opponent's weight against them."

"You trainin' to _kill_ me?"

He finally released the joint and sat back on his heels. "You're doing a pretty good job of that yourself. How many days has it been since the surgery? Two?"

"Yeah, so what?" I said, closing my eyes and trying to catch my breath on the mat. "The stitches dissolved, the appendix is gone -- there's nothin' left to hurt."

"Nothing except the place where they carved you open."

I bit down on one of my gloves and yanked it off, then pulled at the bottom of my shirt. "Hardly. Check it out -- the newest in laparoscopic surgery."

There were three two-centimeter long red lines on my abdomen, surrounded by a flowering of bruising. One line inside of each hip, and another almost hidden inside my belly button. "They put the scope in this one," I said, fingering the right-hand side. "Pumped a bunch of carbon dioxide gas through here -- and they pulled the sucker out through the middle."

The center one had the gnarliest of the bruising, but it didn't really hurt. 

"Hm," Kyle muttered. "I thought it might look something like my mom's C-section. These look good, though -- probably won't even scar."

"They wouldn't even let me keep the fuckin' thing," I said, too weary to lift my head. "Said it was a bio-hazard or something -- like, what's the point of surgically removing your organs if ya can't even _keep_ them."

Kyle snorted and stood, clasping his gloves behind his neck. "Only _you_ would want to keep a damn bio-hazard in a jar on your desk."

"It's my right," I murmured to my eyelids. "It was mine."

"It almost killed you."

"Still mine."

"Anyway," he sighed. "I'm done today."

By the time I peeled myself from the mat, Kyle was ducking out of the ring and heading for the locker rooms. I followed slowly, and after hanging my head under the shower for a few minutes, packed up my sweaty gear and left through the fire exit at the back. The door fell closed behind me, and I leaned against it, waiting for my head to stop spinning. Moustaphe's place occupied a single space in a long half-empty building complex; it was bracketed on one end by Groucho's pawn shop and a tattoo parlor, and a bakery on the other. It was a real shitty part of downtown South Park -- everything smelled like wet pavement and cigarettes -- and I found myself thinking a little wistfully of the Murphy's farm. The vision arose unbidden of fields swaying with fireweed under perpetual moonlight. 

Kyle offered me a pull on the thing he was smoking, and I took it, detecting the slight muggy flavor of weed beneath the tang of tobacco. It was a spliff -- I almost laughed at the absurdity, picturing Kyle rolling leaves over his fuckin' math homework or something. 

"Does Stan know what a _thug_ you've turned into?"

He shrugged one shoulder and reclaimed the spliff. I noticed the dark notches beneath his eyes, gone slightly purple around the pale bridge of his nose, and wondered for the first time what life was like in the Broflovski household. 

"You're one to talk, Scarface."

Kyle led the way around the back of the building. I stopped where my junk Volvo was parked and threw my gear inside, then moved on through the chill of a mid-winter afternoon. Kyle took the city bus to Moustaphe's, not daring to take the family Civic into low-income territory. You'd have to be off your nut to steal my piece of crap car, so I drove. 

"It's your turn."

His eyes narrowed. "I paid _last_ week, and you fuckin' know it."

"Forgot my wallet."

He groaned, but bee-lined for the counter while I sought out a table in the deserted bakery that wasn't too sticky. It felt good to sit down, even though it pulled at my scabs a little uncomfortably. 

I closed my eyes against the sunlight glaring off frost heaves in the parking lot. Kyle slid in across from me, stared out the window and tapped his fingertips against the gooey wood finish. Nobody knew we beat the shit out of each other and then went out for coffee on the weekends, though it was probably more embarrassing for _us_ then for anybody else, really -- but I was too tired to question the habit, lately. I hated Kyle's guts; he hated mine. We fought, and then we talked physics over coffee for an hour -- what's the big deal.

I cracked my eyes when the twenty-something jack-ass from behind the counter arrived with our coffees. He thought he was really something, with his glasses and piercings. He was gone in the space of a blink and a smile -- _what is it with coffee shops and homosexuals,_ I wondered.

"He wants to bone you," I said, offhand. 

Kyle's spoon ceased its clatter against the rim of the ceramic mug. I could feel him eyeing me. 

"You can't fucking know that."

"Sure I can. It's easy."

"I don't even think he's gay."

I snorted. "Man -- you're really clueless when it comes to the animal world, you know that? You can wrap your head around black holes and quasars, but when it comes to old-fashioned mating -- "

"This isn't fucking _Animal_ Planet. Get off my back."

"And let him on, I suppose."

" _Fuck_ you, you don't know a damn thing -- "

"He's gonna wipe down the counter and stare at you," I said, watching the milk turn in tiny swirling galaxies in my cup. "Go on -- look over. Guaranteed eye contact."

I waited, feeling the exact moment his glare shifted -- then he hissed a breath through his teeth and propped an elbow on the table to cover the side of his face with his hand. "Oh my god, you're right."

"You should try it out."

"Fuck no, I'm not fucking interested."

I shrugged. "Alright. Shoot a dick pic to Stan, then, next time you're in the mood."

"What is this, some alternate reality where we all fuck our best friends?"

I put down my mug. "What did he tell you."

Kyle smirked. "Kenny can't keep his mouth shut about that kind of shit, you know that. I can't believe you -- " 

He broke off to laugh, then started again. "He said you guys had -- and I'll just direct quote here -- 'terrific sex', and then you started puking blood. I don't know much, but if you ask me, Eric -- that's not exactly the stuff of romance."

"Hey, asshole, _he_ came first. And you don't even _know_ what a big deal that is -- "

"No, I mean -- it sounds like you showed him a good time, I just can't believe you did it with _acute appendicitis_ ," he snorted. "You are really fucked up."

For a moment I watched the steam rise from my cup. "I didn't even notice it."

Some of the laughter left Kyle's eyes. "For real, though, you should catch up with him soon. He was, uh -- "

"Bugging, probably," I supplied. "But I have some shit to take care of this week."

"The week?" He said, eyes hard. "Or another fucking month of vanishing off the face of the Earth? What the hell is going on with you? You've finally got someone who gives a shit what you get your ass into, and you won't give him the time of fucking day."

"It's more _complicated_ than that, alright? I'm doing this for _him_."

He leaned back and crossed his arms, a suspicious glare settling over his face. "I don't get it. What're you _up_ to, exactly?"

"You won't get it."

He considered me in silence, then abruptly reached down to begin digging in his bag. "You recognize this?"

It was a slim volume with a line of Hebrew on the cover. My stomach lurched, empty and unsettled.

"I've seen you reading in class," he continued. "But -- this is a little out of the box, even for you."

"Where'd you get that?"

"It's been on the shelf in my dad's study for as long as I can remember," Kyle said, flipping the book over to consider the back cover. "I've probably read it about a dozen times. But -- this is only available in Hebrew, Cartman."

"I'm good with languages."

"What're you _look_ ing for?"

Well, wasn't that just a strangely pertinent question. "A soul."

Kyle tipped his head and laughed hard and loud, like a happy executioner. The jack-ass at the counter wasn't even pretending to clean anymore. I glared over at him till he turned away, then looked back at the backstabbing Jew.

"When souls are fragmented, they flee across the three realms," I said, simply un-motivated to lie when nothing fucking mattered anymore. "If you don't find them in time, they can never be repaired."

"Wait -- are you fucking serious right now?" Kyle recovered, biting down on a smile. "I always knew you were a crazy son of a bitch, but this is new. You've been reading in _Hebrew_ for this?"

"What d'you think of Kenny's dreams?"

Kyle sobered instantly. "Actually -- I was just telling him about relativity the other day."

"Oh yeah? I bet you drew him that cute preschool diagram of reality too, huh?" I said, plucking at the fringe of a napkin settled under my mug. "You underestimate him."

"That's funny -- he told me I _over_ estimated him."

"That's just how he is, though."

"Yeah..." Kyle hummed, and his expression, still darkened by the cloud of suspicion, took on a turn of curiosity. "What is this about, dude?"

"Do you -- do you know how to get into the Upper World?" It was worth a shot, I guessed. 

"You mean Olam Ha-ba? Only righteous souls have a place there."

 _Shit,_ I thought, even though I already kind of knew that. "And the wicked ones?"

" _'Multitudes who sleep in the dust of the Earth will awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame and everlasting contempt,_ '" He quoted. "Wicked souls lose their portion of paradise. The closest they get to Olam Ha-ba is -- well, I guess you could say it's a waiting room of sorts; it's a part of the upper realm where the soul is judged and either purified before entering a higher state of being -- Olam Ha-ba -- or cast down to She'ol. ...Does this actually interest you?"

"Keep talking." I said. 

"Right, well -- if a soul is judged to be righteous, it's allowed a place in the upper realm. If not, it endures a purification or punishment for a while, and then ascends. These souls are reincarnated into the material world until the end of days, when the Messiah leads the righteous to the promised land. Wicked souls that can't be purified aren't reincarnated; they're destroyed."

"So what exactly happens in this -- _waiting room?_ "

"Some say that every act of kindness here on Earth creates a corresponding 'angel', I guess you could call it, in the upper realm. These compassionate entities help the righteous ascend to Olam Ha-ba. Now, every act of evil -- "

"Creates a demon."

"Correct. Ascending to Olam Ha-ba means facing off against the demons you've created." 

I took the napkin from under my cup and started folding it over itself. "So -- if, say, a soul is fragmented, and a piece of it -- "

"That's not possible."

I huffed through my nose, leaned over the table, had the strange desire to gore the table with the horns that didn't exist on this plane. "You don't know what I've fuckin' been through."

"Well maybe if you started making _any_ fucking sense..."

So I tore the napkin, stacked the pieces on the sticky table, and told Kyle fucking Broflovski the harrowing tale of my journey to the Lower World, the hawk and the soul retrieval -- skipping all the sexy bits -- and ending with the surgery.

"...Do you actually believe you've been collecting Kenny's _soul_?" was his incredulous response.

"Either that or someone's been slipping LSD into my food."

" _Or_ you've lost your damn mind."

"Why is this so hard for you to fucking _grasp?_ " I said, accelerating swiftly past the no-patience level. "You just told me a load of bullcrap about a reincarnation cycle that only ends when the chosen dickhead comes to lead all the ass-kisser Jews into the Garden of fucking Eden, but you don't think it's possible for a soul to be ripped apart by its shitty lot in life? Isn't one of the basic principles behind tikkun-olam the idea that God packed some divine light into a vessel and it shattered, scattering pieces across the planet or something? Shit can break; even spiritual shit can break -- "

"I guess that's the gist of it -- crudely -- but..." Kyle toyed with the stack of torn napkin, spreading the pieces out into a single layer on the tabletop. "This is just so outside my experience of reality -- and I don't wanna believe one of my best friends is... broken."

"Head in the dirt, as usual."

He lifted his glare to me. "And yours? Where's your head at, that you've managed to convince yourself that all this is true? You keep talking about fragmentation -- but fuck, Cartman, I've never known _any_ body as fragmented as you. You're -- "

"A self-contradiction, I know." I said, passing a hand over my face and considering the coffee grinds in the bottom of my cup. 

"I'm serious. You've got this twisted image of yourself as this wicked thing that can't be saved -- and yeah, I kind of agree with you there -- but look what you're _doing_ with your life; you've drawn up this fantasy just to tell yourself that nothing's right. And yeah, your mom's gone, your old cat's dead -- but guess what? I think you're _better_ for it. And now you have a chance to fill your empty fucking life with something real, something _good_ , but you're too suspicious, too damn _guilty_ to accept it. Look at yourself, Cartman -- you're falling apart. You're losing your shot at hu _man_ ity.

"Here's my advice," He continued. "Forget it. Forget this shit. Stop dragging yourself through metaphysical hell and start living your life. You're trying to save somebody who's right next to you."

I shook my head, feeling a phantom weight spiraling around my ears. "He's not the same."

"And why the fuck should he be? He's _been_ through shit; we all have. Why does everything have to be all-or-nothing with you?"

"And the migraines, the fucked up dreams -- you think that's all natural? Why should I sit around while the only thing I have left is fuckin' -- fuckin' _suffering_?"

Kyle sighed. "You know, dude -- right now, all I can see is _you_ suffering. It's just like your appendix; that could've _killed_ you if you ignored it even one more day, and you were too busy playing the happy fucking warrior and taking on all that pain as some twisted self-punishment to realize that you've actually still got something; you got _us_. Look, I think you deserve to suffer -- more than most people, in fact -- but I'm not looking to fucking bury you. People fuck up. People will _always_ fuck up. People are responsible for the Holocaust, and that's definitely not the end of it -- but dude... if you weren't the way you are -- you diabolical son of a bitch -- d'you think we would've hung out with you all these years? _No_ \-- you'd be about as interesting as gay Bradley without the alien ancestry."

I started to come back at him, mostly about being compared to Mint Berry Crunch in any fucking fashion, but he held up his hand; and I would've just been pissed if he didn't look so profoundly uncomfortable -- Kyle Broflovski, the model of intellectual stoicism -- _uncomfortable_.

"Listen, there's something else I wanna say. It's come to my attention recently, that -- that you might not've been _entirely_ responsible for the hard drug trade back in Middle -- "

"Finally figured it out, huh? You rat -- "

"I'm not going to apologize for turning you in," he said. "Because you've done enough to deserve it, and then some. But -- I'm just a little sorry that it's turned you into this. It's really pitiful." And he flipped a hand in a strange gesture, almost like he was calling attention to the horns ringing my head. 

"Kyle. How do I get into the damn waiting room?"

"You're really set on this, aren't you? Why d'you have to be so single-minded -- why does everything have to go your way -- ?" 

"This isn't _about_ me."

"Right -- it's about Kenny," Kyle drawled back. "But what happens after, huh? What happens _every single time_ you get some hare-brained idea in your head and carry it all the way to fruition? You _never_ think of the consequences -- "

"I'm not going to lose."

"Ye-ah," he spat. "'Cause this is about winning, isn't it? You might not lose, but if you do something stupid -- you could lose _him_. And then what the hell are you?"

"I don't care. It doesn't -- " I shook my head again. "It doesn't matter. There's only one more piece left -- but to get it back... He won't want anything to do with me, after this."

"...What are you planning?"

"How do I get to the _god_ -damned waiting room, Kyle."

He snorted, exasperated and vicious. "You die."

Righteous souls might connect with the Upper World through their share of eternity, but for the wicked ones, there was only one way, it seemed. I am Become the Horned God, Lord of Death and Resurrection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey drop a fuckin line huh  
> i'm like the guy in the fucking space odyssey out here -- total communication vacuum


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little fun fact on your author's life? i grew up in south park, new hampshire -- and i know a few (hundred) 'Tomcat' characters; they stink, they dip, but they're usually alright. I worked with a guy who everybody called 'Bobcat', and boy he never shut up about military conspiracies. okay. on with the show.

### The Fool, Reversed

Kenny shrugged the hard wood butt of the rifle tighter against his shoulder and leaned his cheek against the stock. He squinted one eye down the broken sight, swore, and squeezed the trigger. 

His shot whistled between the glass bottles and thudded into a stack of hay bales behind the table in a crackling _whoosh_ of snapping straw. Kenny swore again, and took a small step forward in the wet parking lot behind Jimbo's shop. The rifle was an old bolt-action model with a single barrel assembly and a crooked sight -- so the accuracy of the weapon wasn't great to begin with -- but each time he missed, Kenny felt a searing dissatisfaction surge and nip at the blunt edges of his headache; he wanted to take something that was whole and perfect, and destroy it. Jimbo used to let them mess around with the semi-automatics, but only so much gunfire could invade the neighborhoods of downtown South Park before somebody complained. 

Kenny tried to tune out the chatter of the guys behind him -- a rhythmic murmur cut occasionally by the sharp surety of Wendy's voice -- and cursed his shaking hands and pounding head. He grit his teeth against the frigid wind, shoved down his hood, and adjusted the rifle against his shoulder again. After a second of eyeing the twisted sight, he reached out and snapped it off -- took another step, and glared down the swaying barrel. 

The next shot flew far wide of their makeshift firing range and struck the trunk of a black locust tree standing outside the fenced-in lot. It made a sound like a smashing watermelon. Kenny felt like a murderer. 

He shuffled forward and shook out his hand, hoping the tremors could be shocked into submission for just a hot fucking minute, then eyed the line of glass bottles. Headaches only talked in headache languages; it was like being in a room full of people shouting in a different language.

"Kenny!"

Kyle's voice pierced his fragile focus and he pulled the trigger through a snarl. 

In the following pop-burst of shattering glass, Kenny dropped to the pavement, his brief shout of pain echoing across the empty lot. 

By the time Kyle fell to a crouch beside him, he'd recovered enough to lift a hand to where a shard of glass had lodged above his eyebrow and work it out of the skin. Kyle took the reddened shard from his trembling fingers and flung it away.

"We have a line for a _reason_ , you know. You could've lost your fucking eye -- or _worse_."

Unwilling to bloody his gloves or parka, Kenny simply hunched forward and watched the blood drip to the wet tar.

Kyle thumbed the area over the cut, checking its depth, then leaned back on his heels and blew a deep breath through his nose. "A little model of Cartman's, huh?"

"You, uh -- you haven't heard from him in the past few days?" He continued, in the carefully casual tempo of a psychoanalyst. 

"Kenny, talk to me."

"Jus' this text," he said, and each word felt like coughing up hair. "Twelve days. Says he needs at least twelve days. Kyle -- what the fuck does that _mean?_ "

Kyle's brow furrowed. He reached up to push some of the longer looser red curls from his forehead. "I... don't know. What's twelve days from -- ?"

"The 21st. It's so random, man, I don't fuckin' -- I went to his place the other day, locked up like a damn tomb, of course, and I think the doorbell's been disconnected. I'm just -- I'm out of ideas how to even ex _plain_ him to myself -- "

"So stay away. Stay away from him for a while." Kyle said. "He's definitely planning something -- I'm not sure _what_ , exactly -- but it can't be good."

Kenny knew Kyle knew more than he was telling. But the realization was barely more than a tickle in his hindbrain -- he felt like a fishbowl; like his whole body was outside his control and his conscious mind only fluttered back and forth aimlessly inside it: a fat-eyed goldfish with a three-second memory.

"You're not pissed at me?" Kyle asked suddenly. "You're not pissed at me for bringing him down -- telling the police?"

 _Bringing him down_ , Kenny thought. _Is that what he thinks he did?_

"He knew you'd go to the cops."

Because Kyle had only played his part, hadn't he? If the cops hadn't been tipped off about Cartman, he wouldn't've had the set-up he needed to offer Rainer Fichte a deal he couldn't refuse -- and _even_ if he hadn't, Kenny didn't have a doubt in his mind that Eric would've found a way, one way or another. He was unstoppable with a goal.

"Go sit down," Kyle said, taking the rifle from Kenny's loose hands. "Hold something to that cut."

Kenny rose and stumped over to the array of crates and boxes just outside the backdoor of Jimbo's small shop. Stan and Wendy had claimed the only bench -- not that it was a hot spot, since it was half-rotted and perpetually chipping paint -- and Kenny noticed that Jimbo's employee Tomcat had left the counter to join them, standing on a rolling box trolley and wiggling it back and forth like a massive skateboard. 

"Kenny!" The tall twenty-something caterwauled around a lip packed fat with dip. The guy was always fuckin' dipping. "I never seen your aim so off -- is it a full moon?"

"Close," Kenny said as he approached, reaching out a hand to knock knuckles with the man. "It's a new moon."

He offered Kenny a dish rag and grinned with all his mossy teeth. Kenny took it and starting mopping up the blood on the side of his face.

Tomcat was a high school drop-out with a small-town rep for selling weed in dime-bags back in the day. Kenny hadn't bought a dime-bag since he was thirteen; it always took him back, seeing the patchy gun-nut. Tomcat was something of an unsavory character -- on account of his lousy personal habits -- but he was alright; a lot of people in South Park were just alright, if you gave them a chance. 

"Had the little wolf in here the other day," he said, spitting some black shit onto the pavement. "Sharp eye, that one -- but cold as a witch's teat! Wouldn't say a word to me -- "

"Don't compare my sister to a teat, man." Kenny said, collapsing back onto a crate against the wall. 

"Well, I packed 'er clips for about ten hours -- thought I deserved a wink and a nod, at least."

He was always saying shit like that. Ten hours, a hundred years; Tomcat-time was always measured in eternities. 

"Hey man, you good?" Stan said, reaching over to bat at Kenny's knee from where he sat on the edge of the rotted bench. 

"Just a flesh-wound."

"Gotta keep an eye on the line."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Stan. Hey, maybe next time you can hold my fuckin' feet."

"Anything for you, Ken," said the class president, lifting his beer and smiling around the bottleneck. "But, seriously -- that was the most mediocre shooting I've ever seen from you."

"Ah-huh -- " Tomcat keened in his ratcheting growl, voice prematurely aged from years of chewing tobacco. "He's just in a funk, is all. Mucus is all out of wack -- "

" _Mucus?_ " Wendy said, arching one of her wonderful dark brows over at the drop-out. 

"Sure," he said, nodding sagely. "Ev'rybody's got four kinds, see: red, yellow, white, and black. Usually one kind is mos' dominant -- "

"You mean _boogers?_ " Stan said. "I think I've got more than four kinds of boogers, 'cat. Had a really gnarly green one the other day, as a matter o' fact."

Kenny snorted with laughter, feeling a surge of love for his friend that cut through some of his emotional deadness. Stan was fuckin' brilliant; he was so fuckin' brilliant he never even felt the need to prove it. 

"I think he's talking about humorism," Wendy said, carefully. She was a totally separate creature from Tomcat; through her deep brown eyes, the drop-out became a homely pig-in-a-blanket that had snuck onto her platter of _hors d'oeuvres_.

"If yer mucus levels're out of wack," he said, wiggling on the trolley until it looked like his salt-crusted jeans might fall to his salt-crusted boots. "It twists up yer mind -- all kinds o' fucked up shit comes outa wacky mucus levels. Kenny, here -- he's prob'ly got the most yellow kind. Your friend -- whatsisname, that big hockey bastard? -- now that's a case of black mucus if I e'er saw one."

"I got the trailer park on the phone for ya, Tommy-kid," Kenny said, staring down at his lap and the phone spinning in his hands. "I think it wants you back."

Tomcat hated being called 'kid,' especially by young high school punks like them. But Kenny wanted everybody to shut up about Cartman and his black bile. 

" _Don't_ call me that," he growled. "I'm old enough to be yer crumby _father_."

"No you're fuckin' not. Shut up about this mucus shit." 

"See?" He said. "This is a classic example of a yellow-type attitude: short-tempered -- a kid what can't respect 'is superiors."

" _One_ more word, Tomcat -- and I lay you the fuck out."

The drop-out grinned his mossy grin and spat again. "That's just my point, though, ain't it? Folks go rabid with their mucus out of wack. It's why we need guns. And the world needs war."

Kenny thought about making good on his threat, but his head was still leaking and it wasn't doing anything to help the pain from his migraine.

"The world doesn't _need_ war," Wendy said, hackles officially risen. "War is man-made, but it isn't _necessary_ ; it's not a _weather_ forecast -- "

"Just 'cause it's man-made don't mean it ain't natural. War 'appens 'cause humans got no way to express their crazy in civilized -- civilization. Like, Hitler couldn'ta been an artist. He only coulda been Hitler. There's no place in the _or_ dinary world for people wit black mucus dispositions, so they get all wacked out and do crazy stuff -- "

"Wait," Stan said. "If there's only four kinds of boogers, and everybody's led off by one kind, then you're saying _25% of the population_ is like _Hitler_?" 

"Nah -- listen to me, man. Everybody's got all four kinds, but all in different amounts, so even if you're led by the black kind, as long as you keep yer natural levels of the other three in balance, you're just an average honkie like everybody else. It's when those levels are clogged up and repressed that you get crazy people. You're probably led mostly by the red kind, Stan -- so nothin' to worry about." He winked over at the class president. 

Kyle finished his shots and came swaggering back to the group with the rifle slung cross-wise over his shoulders. His worn-out black Converse were kind of splitting at the toes, but they were a special edition kind with dice on the sides so he kept wearing them, patching up the bigger gaps between the rubber and canvas with duct tape.

"Hey, man -- " Stan never used his usual pet-names with Wendy around, Kenny noticed. "Guess what? The Holocaust happened 'cause Hitler's boogers were _'out of wack.'_ "

"Hm," Kyle hummed, swinging the rifle around and up into firing position and leveling the muzzle between his best friend's eyes. 

"That's an interesting perspective," he said, somehow both mild and dangerous, like a soft rain before a hurricane. "Who's is it?"

"Well, certainly not mine," Wendy began to say.

"Please don't kill me -- "

"Cartridge is empty," Kyle said, dropping the gun to his side and cocking a half-smile at Stan. 

"I just don't think the atrocities of war can be chalked up to innate temperaments or individuals' intrinsic qualities," Wendy continued, seemingly somewhat disturbed by Tomcat's thoughtful exposition. "The willingness to participate in war is a psychological consequence of surrendering to authority -- submitting to laws like societal mind-control -- "

Kenny watched Kyle's eyebrows climb up his forehead.

"That's just too _easy_ , little sister," Tomcat never remembered _any_ body's name, the bastard. "That's usin' _reason_ to explain somethin' what's offen just pure crazy -- and war is crazy! War's about man's _animal spirits_ , all out o' balance and comin' out to riot against mun _dan_ ity."

 _Mundanity?_ Kenny thought, surprised.

"But that's -- that's just barbarism," Wendy muttered. Stan lifted a hand and rubbed slow circles on his girlfriend's back.

Kyle looked torn between being amused at her discomfort and intrigued by the drop-out's surprisingly rigorous theorizing. Kenny was also caught somewhere in the middle: even though comparisons of Cartman and Hitler were both out-dated and discomfiting -- he had to admit, some of Tomcat's talk of craziness and civilized 'mundanity' reminded Kenny of his best friend's commitment to absurdity in everyday life.

"Animal spirits, huh," Kyle said, swinging the rifle around and then popping open the cartridge. "Sounds like you got a story for us, 'cat."

Wendy's crowning-glory long black hair shook with the movement of her head. "You guys can't _actually_ think 'animal spirits' are to blame for _war_ ," she said, staring at Kyle as if she expected more from the guy who'd casually held class rank number one since the seventh grade. "You're confusing _intent_ with _entropy_."

"I don't think that's what he's saying, Wendy," Kyle answered, kicking some empty shells across the pavement.

Tomcat grinned again, and took his opening. "Sure -- I got a story for ya's all. During World War II, we and the Soviets, we was all just beginning to experiment with new military tech: chemical weapons, you know? Mustard gas, napalm -- all the colors of biological warfare. It was all about gettin' a leg up on the Germans -- how to shove the old American foot up those Nazi asses. One of the biggest problems we got is _tanks_. Nazi tanks are out conquering Europe; but they're damn-near indestructible from the ground -- only got one weakness: the chassis, the undersides. So, whadda y'all think we did? Let's hear it -- let's see what all that schooling's done for yer."

"I dunno," Stan said, tapping at his chin. "Land-mines, I guess."

"Sure!" He said, clapping his hands once. "That's what we did, at first -- but hard to make tanks seek out bombs just buried in the ground, right? So instead, we decide to find a way to make the _bombs_ seek out the _tanks._

"So here's the genius plan: we take a bunch o' puppies from their mums before they've weaned, starve 'em, and feed 'em only from the undersides of tanks. After a while, the dogs learn to charge under tanks lookin' for food. Then, when the Nazis is linin' up, we take these half-starved dogs and strap explosives with big levers onto their backs, and let 'em loose. They run straight for the tanks. _Boom._ "

"Wait, so it worked?" Stan asked.

"Hardly -- lots o' the dogs ran back under friendly Soviet tanks, or jumped into the trenches with their own handlers; it was chaos. Took maybe three-hundred Nazi tanks down with 'em, though."

"This is actually _true?_ "

"True's the second coming, little sister. Poured millions of dollars into the training, prob'ly sacrificed upwards of 60,000 of the beasties; they say dogs is man's best friend, right? What kinda crazy does it take to strap 'em up with bombs -- make 'em into weapons? I'm tellin' you -- whacked out mucus, whacked out shit: man is monster is man. But here's the funniest part -- "

" _What_ part of this is _funny?_ " 

"Funny -- absurd, fucked up -- it's whatever you wanna call it," Tomcat waved a hand dismissively. "You know what kinda dogs they used? _German_ shepherds."

And as the high school drop-out laughed his ragged laugh, Kenny did as well; not because it was funny -- because it walked that strange line of being not quite right and yet real.

"Where'd you _hear_ this shit, man?"

"Wrote a damned paper on it in Middle, didn't I?" He said, scratching at the patchy hair on his head. " _Dam_ -n it fucked me up."

"No wonder you dropped out," Stan said, chuckling a little uneasily.

"I got a story, too." Kenny said, pulling the rag away from his head to examine the blood. He didn't know which was more pitiable: the dogs, knowing nothing but hunger and where to look for food, or the kind of desperate madness that created such weapons.

"One of my ancestors was Kiowa. Satank, he was called -- Sitting Bear. When the West was still being settled in the mid-1800s, he led a lot of raids on white communities. Even when the Kiowa were moved onto a reservation, he'd ride out and lead these attacks. He lost his land, his rights -- his people were losing to manifest destiny -- and then his son was killed, too."

Kenny watched his hands distantly, barely registered the uncertain silence of his friends. 

"So Satank -- he wrapped up his son's bones and carried them with him wherever he went," He continued. "After a raid on a supply shipment -- he killed seven out of 12 teamsters -- finally they caught him, wanted to try him for murder at a military court in Texas. Of course, natives didn't make it out of that shit alive; a trial meant death, right? So on the road to Fort Richardson -- shackled up, chained -- Satank chews his wrists down to the bone, slips the cuffs and grabs a gun from one of the guards. So they shot him up, dumped his body on the side of the road where his family was too afraid to come collect it." _And nobody to carry his bones but me_ , Kenny finished.

Stan's hand had moved to his shoulders. Always free with comfort, Stan.

"He was 61," Kenny added. "He was the leader of the Kiowa warrior society -- only the ten best warriors in the tribe were let in. They were called the _Koitsenko_ ; it translates to 'crazy dog.'"

"I didn't know you had Native American in you, man," Kyle said thoughtfully, standing the rifle butt-first on the ground and leaning against it.

Kenny shook his head. He barely knew, either. He lived his life by what he saw in the mirror: the 100% Irish son of Stuart McCormick; not even the whisper of that ruthless ancestry remained in his genes, it seemed.

" _I_ see it," Tomcat said around his mossy grin. "Always had a little American in you, I thought. _Crazy dog --_ well, how 'bout that!"

"Maybe."

Kenny's phone buzzed. It was a text from a blocked number. He opened the message, and after a moment's hesitation downloaded the attachment; it was a picture. 

"Ken?" Stan murmured to his right, leaning over to him. "What's up, man?"

Kyle's shadow fell over them both, bringing the picture into sharper focus. "What the -- "

"Karen," Kenny felt a thousand miles away, staring at the picture of his sister, obviously unconscious -- propped against a wall and ringed by shadows shaped like people. Then he noticed the tell-tale glow of a lava lamp just edging into the frame, and his heartbeat returned with a ferocity that blurred his vision. 

"Wait!" Kyle called after him. "D'you know where she is?"

But he was already climbing into his truck and fumbling the keys into the ignition with shaking hands. The engine turned with a roar and the tailpipes coughed an explosion of exhaust -- and with a mind as blank and starving as a tank-dog, he peeled out in search of all that tethered him here. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i need to say this, i think. this installment encompasses a lot -- including a nibble of physics and some hard drugs. just don't worry about the physics. but listen; i had a can mate my freshman year who'd do lines of cocaine off his desk before class -- and i had a horrible experience with cocaine the same year, after going 11 days without eating. just, coming from a first-time user who knows a long-time user: don't. do. cocaine. it fuckin sucks. 
> 
> drugs are bad, mkay? but like -- hit the vape before you read this, and relax.

### Death

On the fourth day, I thought I might've miscalculated; it was happening too quickly. 

I grit my teeth against another wave of shivers that rattled through my skeleton and shook some sweat over my forehead. _I'm an oxymoron_ , I thought, numb.

"Get out." I went for a growl but fell short in a crusty gurgle as the door to the bathroom opened. I felt the light from the hallway fall over my face at a slightly different temperature than my skin.

"You -- you sure about this, boss?"

I barely felt his hand where it nudged at my shoulder, like somebody poking at a dead thing with a stick. I pushed myself up from the tile just in time to catch, lurch, and _heave_ \-- 

But there was nothing to come up. My body's strange desperation to relieve itself of a poison that didn't exist only accomplished a bunching rip-tear feeling in my stomach lining. 

"It's just," Axel was saying. "I never seen a human being like this."

My eyelids felt sweaty; I wanted to close them, let them cool off, but I was afraid I'd fall asleep and the four days I'd spent keeping them open would be wasted. I squinted, afraid to even blink, and started trying to stand on pure effing will-power. 

"Gandhi went like two months without eating."

"Brother -- you're not _Gandhi_."

"Obviously." Just four days to reduce me to this -- it was pathetic. I wondered if I'd miscalculated, if I would even make it to the twelfth day. 

I shook my head, feeling sticky and hollow. I realized I'd actually felt pretty damn _excellent_ , the past few months, compared to this. Probably because my half-starved brain had been rushing with ketones; ketones were the moving breathing creature's last defense against starvation; they flood the brain and bloodstream with energy and pain-reducing enzymes -- anything to keep the hunter hunting, right up to the end. I'd only gone four days without my usual cocktail of energy drinks and sad half-meals -- but it already seemed like my ketones were depleted, like they ran out of shit to process and left me hollowed: an abandoned assembly line in a factory without electricity.

 _Keep going_ , I thought. _Just gotta keep going_. I didn't have the energy for more eloquent thought. I'd made my plans and cemented them into my neural pathways before I began this process, knowing I might lose my grip before the time came. All I had left was the faint, instinctual reminder of some duty. And I vowed to follow it through, dammit. 

I wrapped a hand around my throat as I got to my feet, used the grip like a hand-made harness to lead the way from the bathroom and back to my room. My carotid artery thumped against my palm and I gained from it some sense of stability, felt a small return of awareness to my cranial seas and the factory of blood and bone beneath them.

"You bring what I asked?" I said, in a shameful croak.

"Yeah-h," he intoned, trailing after me into the dark bedroom. "The whole damn rainbow."

I dropped back into my desk chair and plucked open the lid of my laptop, gesturing for him to bring the speakers over from the window. 

"The dope?"

Axel's bag dropped to the floor with a terrific _clunk_. He placed a vial and a syringe with a disposable needle on the desk. 

"Cleanest sedative on the black market." He said. "Probably the same stuff they put you out with for that surgery."

"Just this?" I said, eyeing the few milligrams of fluid. 

"According to the BMI you gave me, yeah -- should be perfect for anybody within a few pounds, inches."

" _Should_ be?"

"It's right, okay? When have I been wrong? I'm the best medicine doctor on the block."

"By the way," he went on, dropping the speakers on the desk and drifting behind me to pull at the hood of my sweatshirt. "How's the new nametag?"

I shrugged off his touch. "It itches."

"So what's -- what's Rainer's job, exactly?"

"Worry about your own role," I said, starting up a playlist on my computer. "You find Whitman alright?"

Axel sighed. "Yeah, I got him. He's in the van -- the hick slammed the damn door on my thumb, too, look -- "

His thumbnail was bust up with a purple-red cloud of trapped blood in the center. "Few beans short of an acid tablet, that one."

I snorted. "You just need the extra hands, not the brains."

"I coulda just called up Filthy, you know. He's a good driver, and he don't ask questions -- "

"I don't have anything on Filthy. Just stick to the plan, alright?"

"Can I just ask -- 'cause, you know, I really like McCormick, and I don't wanna -- _ow!_ Okay, okay -- let go!"

I released the middle schooler and he danced away a few steps, rubbing his ear. "No _why_ questions," he murmured. "I remember. Sheesh."

I stood and moved over to my mask wall, lifting the newest one off its hook. "Take this. Give it to Fichte. Don't forget your own."

Axel whistled sharp and quick over the opening arias of Rossini's _La gazza ladra_. 

"Dam-n, did you make this one?" He said, taking the mask by one of its pairs of horns. "Looks like motherfucking _Krampus_ , man."

" _Gruss vom Krampus!_ " He crowed, in his terrible German. "Perfect for our general."

"Don't fuck with the mane."

The horns were made from L-200 -- a light but rigid foam material easy to carve with a hand-held dremmel -- and the main face piece was a latex mold of a plaster cast; after it set I'd added the right planes and ridges, then the color. The whole time I'd just sort of imagined what it ought to look like, and my hands -- pale and scarred on this plane -- made it reality. 

"What's this," Ax murmured, turning it over. "On the inside -- ?"

Before I could stop him the 14-year-old had flipped the mask over his dark curls. The mane of combed cotton settled over his narrow shoulders and made him look like a horned, decapitated head stuck on a bean-post. 

"No way-y!" He said, and his lisp was transformed into a throaty growl as it filtered through the microphone laid along the inside of the mask. "Where'd you get a _voice changer?_ "

"They're like twenty bucks at the Halloween store. Take it off -- and don't mess with the battery pack."

"Ma-an -- you are one _theatrical_ sonuvabitch."

"It's almost time," I said, moving back to the desk. "Let's do this."

Axel dug around in his bag again, then stood, holding a tiny plastic bag. He worked it in his long tanned fingers, flapped it against his palm. I got sick of watching him dick around and reached out for it. 

I switched on my desk lamp to get a look. It was early afternoon and the winter sun was probably doing its big blazing white disc routine, but the curtains were drawn and the air was still; I was creating a space. It was important to create a space. 

"This isn't _crack_ , is it?" I said, nervous despite my convictions. 

"It's 100% blow, dude -- " Axel huffed, as if offended, and shuffled foot to foot. "You asked for cocaine, I got you cocaine. It's the best stuff in Rainer's inventory. He only sells it to doctor-professor types for the big bucks."

"Okay, okay," I said, and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Just -- come prep it for me."

He took my seat at the desk and I moved over to the piano bench, tapped a tune on the keyboard even though the power was off. I could almost imagine the right sounds. Couldn't help the nerves; the first time -- and the last, I'd thought -- trying cocaine had been an accident, smoking Rainer's fucking laced shit one year ago at that party on the border block between North and South Park. It was the closest I'd ever felt to fuckin' dying, so I figured it was the best shot I had. 

Axel measured out a portion of the white powder and mixed it with a small amount of water. He prepped another syringe while it dissolved. Sometimes Lotus brought her crap over and did a couple lines off my desk before we got down to it -- but I couldn't ever bring myself to try it, after the incident; never wanted to, in fact. Anyway my lungs already felt pretty crumby lately, and I had a good relationship with weed without ruining it with that fuckin' poison. This would be the last time, one way or the other.

"Okay," he said at last. 

I stood and shuffled over to my bed, feeling like a death-row inmate on his last mile to the electric chair. Tried to breathe properly but I was busting with nerves and wondering how my body had the oomph to be _para_ noid when it was nine-parts starved and ten-parts broken.

Axel stood in front of me as I lowered myself down on the edge of the bed. He put the vial between his teeth and tied a strip of tension rubber around my upper arm. 

"You remember what you gotta do?" I said. 

"Two meals of wet food, one dry. Scoop the shit out of the litter box thing -- got it." He joked, his dark doe eyes more solemn than I'd ever seen them. 

"And the _other_ stuff," I prompted.

"I know what to do, Eric." He muttered, chewing on his lip. "I'd do anything for you, man -- you know that. Just -- you really know how to test a guy."

"What're you waiting for?"

The needle made its steady descent to the largest blue-green vein sloping over the inside of my elbow. There was still a pale bruise where the IV had been placed. 

"It'll hit you in seconds," he said. 

I locked eyes with my young friend -- too young, for this shit -- and felt the needle prick my skin.

###### 

I don't know what I was expecting. Some fuckin' -- cliched train station, or a white room with Morgan Freeman in it, playing God -- or maybe something like the Space Odyssey: a nice hotel room to hang up my body in the wardrobe and check out as a reborn consciousness -- that would've been pretty sweet, becoming a god. 

The first thing I was conscious of was a terrific power. Like, there was nothing to knock me around anymore: no gravity sucking downward on my marrow, no half-faded memories of trauma to my skin and bone -- damn near forgot I'd ever had an appendix to begin with -- I didn't even have an awareness of Self, really. I was spreading out like the milk galaxies in my coffee mug, integrating into the whole. 

This is how death seems, I thought. 

I started scraping my consciousness back into a _whole_ distinguishable from the _rest_. It was tough -- at first I was going for the old two legs and arms shit, but that was too complicated so I just imagined for myself a sort of ball of separateness; I felt the instant it formed properly -- because the limitless properties of non-linear space suddenly hardened into something I could grasp as a physical space. The Upper World was what you made of it, after all; since infinity as a concept can't be grasped by the human mind, it has to be shaped by the imagination into something that _can_ be conceived. The lower, middle, and upper realms appear to human travelers as a combination of their own projected consciousness and that of others; spirit guides are supposed to be the guys that come out of nowhere and help make sense of this shit, but I was flying blind -- and solo.

It was when I wrapped my fleeing disintegrating conscience around the idea of having _eyes_ that I finally fully emerged onto the plane. I suspected I was moving through the transitional field between the upper Middle World and the lower Upper World -- the waiting room Kyle was talking about -- and I expected to feel a sense of height; humans have imagined the realm of spirit as a thing in the sky since the very beginning of man, since fertility cults in hunter-gatherer turned agricultural societies set mankind on the path to religion and spirituality. The Upper World would probably take on the appearance of someplace that represented the furthest and highest my mind could reach.

I had to admit, I was kind of impressed with what I came up with.

It wasn't a fucking train station; there was no Morgan Freeman; I wasn't fluttering in the branches of the Tree of Life -- I was walking the Magellanic Stream.

If I'd killed myself a few years earlier, I'd probably have crafted a super lame image of clouds and atmospheric tides for the upper realm; but lately my head was swimming with physics, and when it reached -- really _reached_ \-- it conjured the Milky Way galaxy. Specifically, the long arms of the Magellanic Stream: trailing clouds of hydrogen and helium gas that embrace the outer rim of our galaxy and wrap at least 180 degrees across the sky. Two bright clusters led off the Stream; they were called the Magellanic Clouds but they were really clusters of star stuff -- shit that would eventually become stars and galaxies in their own right. The Stream was a remnant of the slow destruction of the smaller Magellanic Cloud; tidal forces wrought from the angular momentum of nearby stars -- interstellar "wind" -- was digging its claws into the small cloud and spreading its essence across the galaxy: _600,000_ light-years long -- it was an incredible distance, an incredible size; and I was dumbfounded by the power of my consciousness to conjure such an image -- 

The interstellar medium was growing thick around my tiny bauble of Self -- suddenly I almost couldn't move through it; I was bumping edges with a dense pocket of space, a cloud of hydrogen and helium dressed with heavier metals that was making me wobble like a rowboat tied up outside in a hurricane. I was passing through an interstellar bramble patch; long arms were grabbing and tearing at my essence like a parody of the Magellanic Stream an a laughably small scale. I ran through some calculations; if this was classic galactic ram pressure stripping produced by a disparity between my velocity through space and the density of the gas around me, then all I had to do was adjust my velocity to balance the equation -- 

_Idiot_. I couldn't believe I was trying to use the laws of linear physics to escape a metaphysical attack of consciousness. In fact, the more I thought about fuckin' _ram pressure_ the heavier and more insistent the dark arms became; the interstellar brambles became brambles -- and once they caught on my horns, the horns became real, and I acquired a gravity in the former weightlessness that was pulling me back, pulling me _down_ and away from where I needed to be. _Fuck_.

Were these the demons I was supposed to be fighting? I wondered. Or just the weight of physical reality drawing me away from a realm supposedly reserved for the spirit? What had I even expected -- a war with a thousand shades of myself, a forced confrontation with every millisecond of my fucked up past? -- I didn't want any of those things. Resistance against the slow mutant arms only served to increase the drag against me; I was the Magellanic Cloud -- and no power in the 'verse would prevent my destruction. 

I heard a call like a whistle split through the darkness -- and that was a whole cluster of impossibilities that shocked my overly pragmatic mind into sudden rest: sound doesn't travel in a vacuum, and I don't have fucking _ears_ so this couldn't be happening. But it was... real, in the metaphysical sense -- because in the next moment I felt a rustle of wings and then a terrific light cut through the edges of my small universe, blinding me -- except I wasn't blinded; the blindness was new sight. 

_Not another fucking_... another goddamned bird of prey was pulling me from the downward dragging arms like a worm from the earth, and it didn't seem to care whether I came up in one piece or not. Fucking birds. 

Knowing only that I was out of my depth here and unwilling to let the arms take me, I poured some effort into willing myself toward the wicked beak and creepy yellow eyes; it was an eagle. The moment I settled on this direction in directionless space, the bird rose through the blank whiteness around us and began flying through it. It was a bizarre sensation, following an eagle that flapped without sound through whiteness like a sheet of blank paper. The arms dripped away from me and where the eagle's wingtips brushed against the whiteness a path was made; it was like moving through a tunnel without walls, if that makes any sense. The eagle was artificially distilling the chaotic space around us. I wondered if I'd found a fucking spirit guide.

Just as I was becoming reaccustomed to my shape, slowly picking out the weight of my head and limbs, the eagle's progress halted and it doubled back to circle over me. Then it dove.

Just one instance of a curved beak tearing into me would've been plenty -- the second time felt even worse. Just like the hawk it reached for my center and tore with hook and talon, like it was searching for something.

Everywhere the bird touched I was invaded by foreign memories -- like she was just _shoving_ all this shit into me while trying to rip me apart -- I saw fields washed with the blood of her people and her enemies, a body lying scalped and uncollected on the side of a dirt road -- I was fighting with McCormick's great motherfuckin' grandmother; and her name was Kicking Bird. I suddenly figured out what she was looking for, and why she'd pulled me from the darkness. 

"I'm not him," I choked around the thing in my chest. And I felt the surging return of my terrible horns and threw her off. 

The eagle took flight again. I followed. After some time flitting around infinity in her fabricated white tunnel, the space opened up again and the blindness that had descended with her companionship lifted on a world that looked very similar to the physical. Except some things were off -- the ground beneath my feet was covered in roses; not like bushes but single-stemmed, thorned roses. The skies overhead were soot-gray like old brick, and bracketed along the horizon by a neverending spine of blue mountain range -- but all the mountains were twisted into shapes I'd never seen. Sound gradually arrived on the plane, and one noise in particular dwarfed the smaller sounds of rustling leaves and howling wind: it was the creak and groan of wood or metal, so deep and pervasive I felt its vibrations along the ground and deep in my chest cavity -- it was the sound of a tree falling in a wood, or a ship's mast under gale-force winds.

Size was the next thing that left my finite mind cowering in a corner: even though I could attach names and categories to things here -- the plants, the mountains -- it was all presented on a scale that made the 600,000 light-years of the Magellanic Stream wrapping around the Milky Way galaxy seem like a shoelace tied around a chicken egg. The head of each rose held the light of a thousand suns; each molecule of nitrogen in the black soil held an eternity of eternities at the sub-atomic level; everywhere I stepped I was kicking aside a collection of potentials and probabilities that the finite mind could not hardly begin to conceive. The woman had led me to Kenny's share of the Upper World -- and it was a gazillion times more awesome than my own.

The source of the creaking was impossible to ignore: over the center of the fields hung a massive -- truly massive -- array of concentric, interlocking rings. They rotated over the swaying roses in slow whorls, never repeating the same pattern. I didn't have the words in my vocabulary to describe what I was seeing -- only that it was the stuff of gods.

 _Holy fucking shit, McCormick,_ I kept thinking.

The eagle had become a woman beside me. There was a grim staidness to her expression that spoke of some concern, or discomfort. Was there something wrong here? I wondered. It was all too fan _tas_ tic not to be perfect -- but, she was looking at me, and waiting. 

_Wait a second..._ "Is this..." I looked up at the monolith of spinning rings hung over the crazy landscape. "Is this it? This is the fragment?"

"Is there something wrong with it?" I said, scarcely able to tear my eyes away.

 _It's dormant,_ came her voice, less like words and more like thought patterns mediated through two separate languages.

"What's it _waiting_ for?"

 _Payment._ She said. _For a safe return._

Right -- the debt. That stupid fucking universal debt that was killing Kenny just 'cause he was bad-ass enough to save his own life. Could hardly comprehend how a thing like _this_ \-- these godly fucking rings -- could be forced into submission, fragmented, by any kind of trauma brought about in the physical world.

"Yo -- let's make a deal," I said, turning to Kicking Bird. "Let me take on the debt through my fragment, and then I'll give it up -- put your grandson back together."

It's what those wicked curved beaks were looking for, after all -- I'd read that soul fragments could be flung around the metaphysical realm, but I never expected that one would be stuck inside _me_ , making me an observer to his sick dreams as I experienced them through the piece of his soul. I had been wrong again; Kenny never ran from me -- he ran _to_ me, the little fuck. And if I hadn't had a piece of him inside me, I never would've made it here -- she never would've pulled me out of hell.

Kicking Bird became an eagle again, and I felt the moment the deal closed -- when the slope of her beak touched the skin between my eyebrows.

Being an observer to Kenny's deaths had been one thing -- but taking on the debt meant taking on his experience first-hand, and I began to understand what kind of force it had taken to fragment his soul. A flood of horrible sensation was rioting through me, waves on waves of unrealized memory crashing over every pain receptor in my unconscious brain -- I felt with scouring detail each and every murder, accident, suicide in those potential futures; they came at me faster than light and yet slow as drying paint. I felt broken bones and abrasions, burns and bullets -- I felt the flesh being carved off my legs and fed to dogs. The onslaught of pain and the twisted medley of memories that accompanied it was the closest I'd ever come to grasping eternity.

Overhead, the dormant rings groaned, and burst into flame.


	23. Chapter 23

### Strength

Pulling into the North Park neighborhood was like returning to the scene of a crime. The moment the truck's tires thump-thunked over the train tracks that marked the border between South and North Park, Kenny felt a sudden return to fear; the ruthless rabidity of purpose that had possessed him in the grip of desperation -- desperation to save his sister at any cost -- was creaking, cracking and giving way to panic. 

Eight snow-white knuckles quivered like mountain peaks beneath his hot exhales. Kenny was having another damned panic attack in his dad's Chevy. But he didn't have _time_ for this shit -- 

A van was parked outside the half-familiar house. It was strange being in the area during such an innocuous time of day; his only memory of it was from the depth of night, blackness dressed in the orange glow of street lamps. But now it was cloaked in the startling white of a winter day, blackened only by tree trunks and empty windows.

The driver's side door cracked like an airlock and before he could fall fully onto his boots Kenny was running for the door. It wasn't as if a locked door would stop him but it didn't even try -- 

The inside was so dark he stumbled on the threshold, and in the moment it took to adjust to the dim lighting, the door was slamming behind him -- his arms were wrenched behind his back, and his pockets patted down. As Kenny struggled against the hold, he realized he'd come to this throw-down woefully unprepared. There were at least two guys behind him and another shifting in the shadows; a horned creature was taking shape in front of him, pulling itself from the wall like one of his nightmares made manifest. He recognized it; but he didn't recognize it. He picked out the outline of three pairs of horns -- one spiraling outward from the ears and two angled sharply from the crown of its head -- all nodding above the soft blur of a mane. It wasn't just similar to his nightmare; it had crawled straight _from_ it -- but the body was a twisted shape, lurching long-limbed and spidery, and it just wasn't quite right. 

"That was fast, McCormick," came its voice -- not a human voice. 

He was wrestled down to his knees on the barf-colored thin carpet, restrained by the two smaller masked figures. "You really never think before rushing into these things, do you? I'm not surprised, actually. It wouldn't be the first time."

Kenny's eyes sought out his sister with little regard for his own impotence in the hands of his captors; and he found her body propped against the wall, just inside the glow of that fucking lava lamp. "What did you do to her?"

As the horned thing approached his sister, Kenny struggled against the hold on his arms until he was rendered immobile by a sharp wrench of his broken arm up to his shoulder blades.

"Don't touch her," he hissed through the pain.

"What're you going to do about it?" came the lazy, crackling voice. "You came all this way to watch her die."

One of its black arms lowered to Karen, pushed down the hood of her parka, and picked at a long lock of straw-blonde hair. Kenny struggled until tears pricked at his eyes from pain and loss. "What did you -- give her?"

It laughed -- and it was two-parts monster and one-part human over the crackle of a cheap electronic voice changer. The figure stretched to its full height again, and angled its horned head down at his little sister, considering, before turning back to him. 

"Let's make a deal," it said. 

" _Fine_ you son of a bitch -- what do you _want?_ "

"How about this -- " it said, advancing through the darkness and dropping something with a dull clunk at Kenny's feet. "We'll take her to the hospital, if you -- "

A syringe with the plunger pulled to accommodate a full canister was glinting at him in the watery light of the lava lamp. " -- Kill yourself."

"Wha -- ?"

"Go on, McCormick -- isn't this what you've been wanting this whole time? Kill yourself, and save your sister's life."

Kenny's hands hit the crumby old rug, but he barely registered being released. _Kill yourself_. He stared at the syringe, breath coming in shallow gasps. He wanted to put his head between his knees until this place _disappeared_ off the face of the earth. But wasn't this -- he wondered. Wasn't this what he'd wanted? A chance to sacrifice himself for his little sister's life? He'd never even pre _tended_ not to consider her more important than his own miserable existence. 

But the circumstances weren't right -- how could he possibly trust a deal coming from the mouth of this _demon?_ How could he be sure everything would be alright after he'd gone? 

"Are you -- " The horned thing dropped to a crouch only a few feet in front of him, its monstrous voice taking on a turn of glee. "Are you _crying_ , McCormick? Fuck -- if I'd known you'd be this pathetic, I would've offered to do this for _free_."

"What are you getting out of this?" Kenny growled.

"I get to pick a thorn out of my side."

"I'd go on and make a decision though, if I were you," it said, rising from the floor and looking in the direction of the body against the wall. "I don't think she has much time."

Kenny's breaths came to a slow stuttering stop. He reached out and took the syringe in one hand, and remembered feeling the grasp of one of his captors at his injured elbow. He just registered a purple thumbnail before shoving the hand away. 

Kenny pushed up his sleeve and held the needle to his skin -- but his hands were so racked with tremors he'd probably stab himself to death before getting the drug into his bloodstream. But he didn't have a choice. This was all he could do; his sister's life, for his -- even if it was only the _chance_ that she survived. 

"Wow, you're really fucking worthless, aren't you?" The horned ringmaster was saying. "If you've decided, we can help stick you with it."

"Or -- " It said, abruptly reaching out and grabbing Kenny by the hair. "I could end this myself -- much more quickly."

Kenny heard a click and felt the cold whisper of a blade against his throat.

Suddenly Kenny dropped the needle and sputtered, choking around a surge of bile in the back of his throat. The knife pulled away as he fell forward onto his hands and knees -- he thought he was going to throw up. It felt like something was being forced into him, something that blanked the backs of eyeballs with white light. It was punching through his ribs and rippling beneath the surface musculature of his diaphragm -- but before it could settle in, it had to force out all the murky clogging deadness that occupied the space. Kenny retched onto the carpet. 

Two or three voices were murmuring around him, but Kenny was still shaking, heaving with new ownership as that thing slammed into place deep inside him.

Somebody was pulling at his shoulder, but he only had eyes for the pair of dark feet in front of him -- the ones that blocked his view of his sister. And he realized the _choice_ was an illusion; there was no such thing as choosing yourself or the ones you loved, no such situation existed in this reality; there was only the Self, and what it was capable of. 

He'd barely caught his breath before Kenny hurled himself at the horned creature like an animal. He brought it down with an elbow in the face reminiscent of the one that knocked Clyde Donovan to the ice in that game of Bulldogs long ago. And when it was down, he seized it by one of its pairs of horns and slammed its head into the floor once, twice, three times with all his strength. 

Kenny spat on the rug, arranged the limp form of his sister over his shoulder, and pushed past the two dark monkeys back into the daylight.

###### 

Kenny pulled the silverware drawer open a hair too viciously and almost dropped the damn thing onto the floor of the kitchen. He cursed, fumbled it back onto its runners, and dug around in the rolling mess of plastic forks and knives and take-out chopsticks. There was probably a single lousy spoon in the whole house -- and it was more often than not floating in an unwashed bowl in the sink. He wasn't looking for a spoon, though.

Kenny shoved the shit around until he found a thin screwdriver and a set of Allen wrenches, then went back to the front door, yanked open the screen, and rejoined his great uncle on the porch.

"Wha're y'doin', boy?"

He heaved a sigh like a hiss through his teeth, and barely looked up from his task. "I'm _fixin'_ this thing -- 'cause everyone else's just gonna sit here and listen to static."

As he fit the screwdriver into the tiny bolts holding the backing on the hand-radio, the rocking chair positioned on the other side of the small card table groaned with his uncle's movements. Grunkle McCormick didn't talk much anymore -- on account of that aneurism he'd had a while back -- and when he did, it was the same gravelly old-person bullshit. _Is this what my father will grow into?_ Kenny wondered. 

The rain was coming down hard, cutting the still quiet of winter with its busy clatter; it came in riotous sheets, distorting the view across the lot with a liquid shimmer -- like looking through a fish-lens. Kenny wished the rain would do more than hammer the tin roofs and fill up the pot holes with muddy water -- he wanted it to peel the bleak landscape away like old wallpaper, strip away the ugly housing across the gravel and let the McCormick household _alone_.

For as long as he could remember, whenever Grunkle McCormick visited, he'd take up his dad's position on their porch -- or before, their backyard, or even before that, their slim covered stoop -- turn up the drone of the radio, and stare off into the world. Kenny asked him why he did it, once, and the old man nodded -- said he liked to watch the sorrow.

The backing on the radio fell away. "Jesus Christ," Kenny murmured, assessing the damage. The alkaline battery pack probably hadn't been changed in about a hundred years, and the entire chassis was crusted with white corroded battery acid. 

"Wa'r yer language."

Kenny snorted and dropped his tools, once again leaving his uncle in the rain to return to the house, letting the screen shut with a slam. The more frustrated he grew with the endless noise in the lot, the more comfort he took in creating his own noise. He wondered if that's what his neighbors thought, too -- were they all on an exponential upward curve of volume, like some kind of counter-productive arms race where everyone's just trying to squeeze a word in? 

He shook his head, leaned against his hands on the kitchen counter and blew a sigh through his nose. There weren't any spare batteries the right size, so Kenny dug his dad's tool box from under the sink and shook one out of the big torch-flashlight. He thought of going up to check on Karen again, but decided against it. He'd hovered over her for days -- and finally this morning, after their parents left for work, she'd looked up from her notebook and snapped at him, the first words she'd said to _any_ body in almost two fuckin' years: _"Leave me alone."_

You've never seen anybody smarter or prettier in your whole life -- Kenny swore it. She woke up not an hour after he got her to the hospital the other day, and immediately wanted to go home. She'd had his heart in a vice -- and oddly enough, he felt her letting him go. 

Kenny returned to his chair on the porch with a toothbrush and a rag. They didn't have any baking soda in the house, so he had to settle for a drop of toothpaste, and he carefully popped the battery out to begin cleaning the casing. 

"I was listenin' to that -- " His uncle began to grouch.

"Listenin' to _what_ ," Kenny spat. "The goddamn _static?_ "

"Yer _language_ \-- "

"Whatever."

Grunkle McCormick was stuck in his interminable nodding routine. "I'm gon' miss the scores."

Kenny sighed for the hundredth time, scrubbing at the corrosion to avoid addressing his own thoughts. "Uncle -- you weren't even tuned to the game."

He wiped the compartment with the rag, popped in the half-juiced battery, and readjusted the casing. 

"Y'made it _worse_ \-- "

" _Wait_ a hot minute, would ya?" Kenny gritted, working the dial until he got the right station. "I bet the circuitry's fried."

"Give it up, MacGyver," the old man chuckled, and it was like hearing a sink drain gurgle and fire up century-old slop. "Can't fix e'erything."

"Sure I can. And even if I can't -- I won't sit around and listen to shit that's _broke_ , like you all. I'm not gonna spend my life watchin' -- watchin' these fuckin' pot holes fill up."

The station finally wavered over to clarity under the sound of the rain. Kenny slammed it back on the table and slid it over to his uncle, then stood up. 

"Can I borrow your car?"

But Grunkle McCormick was done talking for the day, it seemed; he only tipped the chair back and forth, nodding -- his eyes trained on the chaos beyond the porch. 

"Fine," Kenny muttered, and he was in and out of the house in seconds, the keys to his uncle's Buick jangling in his hands.

"You just sit here, then," he said, taking the steps in a leap. "Watch your sorrow."

He palm-heeled the rigid gearshift into drive, and felt the old jalopy struggle out of park and grind over the gravel. He was done with this -- he was done having panic attacks over steering wheels and staring into the future like a deer into headlights; he had fuckin' hunter's blood and he was done denying it. He refused to spend his life staring around at the shit that'd gone wrong. And he'd been _wronged_ , dammit. Kenny didn't know what the fuck was going on in his best friend's head that made him organize that little circus act -- 'cause he was damned _pos_ itive it was Eric's handiwork -- but he was going to find out. He was going to drag that asshole from his stupid house kicking and screaming if he had to. 

He parked on the side of the road just beyond the familiar house. The Volvo was in the driveway -- it was kind of sad to see it sitting in the rain when Kenny knew there was nothing in the garage. Kenny realized he'd been sitting around listening to the static of his best friend's decay. It was time pop open the fucking casing. 

This time Kenny didn't bother with the door. He swung around and hopped the fence to the backyard, then eyed the drainage pipe leading up to the second floor. It was vomiting rainwater into the rocks that ringed the house, rocks that used to bear plant-life but which had long-since died out from lack of care and the winter cold. 

Kenny took a deep breath and pushed up his sleeves, testing the mobility of his healing elbow -- it wasn't great, but it would do. He was the best night-creeper in the county, he remembered, and one crooked drainage pipe wasn't going to stop him. He made a plan of ascent along the edges of the lower windows, then eyed the second level -- he could see the bedroom window was cracked as usual, even though the curtain was drawn -- and guessed the pipe might swerve just close enough to allow him purchase. He'd have to pop the screen off, probably, but if that was what pissed Cartman off then he was just going to have to fucking deal with it. 

He executed the plan with blank-slate concentration, paused to watch the screen fall down the side of the house and settle into the rocks, then put his hands under the window. 

The first thing he noticed was a light on over the desk, and a figure hunched down over it. 

"You son of a bitch -- " He started, jumping down into the bedroom. 

"K - McCormick!" 

" _Axel?_ " Kenny said, adjusting to the dim light. "What're you _doing_ here?"

Axel swallowed audibly around a mouthful of food -- Kenny noticed the containers of leftover food from Thanksgiving half-depleted on the desk. 

"Cat-sitting," The middle schooler said meekly. "And it hates me; only comes out for food."

"Where's -- " Kenny scanned the room. The bed was occupied. 

"No, wait -- don't wake him up!" 

"Why not?" He felt like he could hardly be stopped, but something in Axel's wavering lisping voice made him pause at the bedside. Cartman slept laid out on his back like usual -- but it didn't look restful, exactly. His chest was barely moving.

"Well, he hadn't slept in like -- over 72 hours, when I came over -- "

" _Why?_ "

"Hey, uh -- how's your sister?"

Kenny turned away from his best friend's motionless form and reassessed the young dealer. Then he rushed him, seized the boy by the neck of his shirt and snatched at his wrist. He hardly needed the confirmation of seeing the purpled thumbnail on Axel's right hand. "I _knew_ it was you, you little _fuck_ \-- "

He was going to throw the kid to the floor, but noticed the materials on the desk. "Are you doing co _caine_?"

"Ergh -- " Axel gurgled. "...No."

Kenny glanced back at the bed. Then he shook the kid roughly. " _What did he do?_ "

"Stop shakin' me already!" He cried. "Sheesh!"

Kenny released the middle schooler, tried to calm himself but his hands were beginning to tremble -- not from nerves, not from worry, even -- he was in a damned _rage_. 

"Look, I only do what he tells me -- "

" _Why?_ " Kenny cut in. "He's a fucking _nut_ -case! Or didn't you notice?"

Axel shrugged once, his dark eyes troubled. "He saved my life."

"We didn't really meet at Liu's," he continued, hands flitting out to organize some of the mess on the desk. "It was on one of -- one of Rainer's things. Don't usually see guns out there, you know? Nothin' draws cops quicker than guns -- and if there's one thing the county fuzz does well, it's track down illegal firearms. Anyway, nobody expected it. At least, I definitely didn't. But Eric -- it was like he heard the damn thing before it fired; pulled me outa there. I just -- I just do what he tells me, man. I _got_ to."

Kenny pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tell me what you did, Axel."

"Not much -- honest! I mean, I only brought the stuff for the -- "

"For _kidnapping and drugging my sister._ "

Axel winced. "Err -- look, we was real careful about that -- _ow! Fuck!_ "

"Okay, okay -- no excuses!" He said. "That really sucked, man -- and I still dunno why he hadda do it. All I know is he made a deal wit Rainer -- "

"What kinda deal?"

"He's out, man. He's outa the business, outa the trade. He's not even collectin' profits from him, after this."

"...Why? Why now?"

"Err, well, he really don't tell me much -- but I know the boss's been worried, lately. Rainer, too. I think -- I think Rainer was tryna get 'im ghosted in one o' those turf battles; Eric, he's got dirt on just about everyone he knows, you know? And Rainer don't like that. So they cut a deal; the German sonuvabitch helps him out on that, uh, kidnappin' thing, and Eric leaves the business for good."

Kenny shook his head slowly. "That's -- too simple."

Axel cracked an uneasy smile. "There was an insurance clause."

"A _what?_ "

"Somethin' to make sure he can't go to the cops with all he knows," Axel clarified, getting up from the desk and moving past Kenny to stop at Cartman's bedside. 

As Axel reached out and nudged his friend's head to the side, Kenny'd breath hitched -- there was something _unnatural_ about the way he slept. 

"Check it out."

Kenny crept closer. Where Axel's hand pulled at the collar of Cartman's shirt, he saw some black ink lettering at the base of his neck, inflamed red at the edges, like it was only days old. "A tattoo?"

"All of Rainer's goons have it," Axel explained. "If the cops see this on you -- they're not gonna believe a word you say."

"What's it -- say, exactly?"

" _Schlafes Bruder._ Means 'brother of sleep.' Rainer's got a bit of a theatrical side, too -- but, you probably already knew that."

Kenny moved in until Axel had to shift aside to make room; he pushed away the middle schooler's hand and settled his own on Cartman's strangely lukewarm skin -- it was like passing his hand over a ghost. He traced the inflamed ink lettering and then slid his hand up, circling Eric's ear and then coming to rest in the sticky hair behind it. "What've you done?" He muttered. 

"Kenny," Axel said, moving back to the desk. "You weren't s'posed to be here till tomorrow."

Kenny sighed, somehow unsurprised -- of _course_ this was all part of the plan. But the touch of Eric's skin was calming, and he tucked his anger aside. Something was still _wrong_ , here.

His hand slipped down to where he could feel the thump of his best friend's pulse. It was shallow, so shallow. "Axel -- "

Kenny pulled himself onto the bed and tipped Eric's head to face the ceiling. "He's not sleeping -- he's in a fucking _coma_."

"I know," came Axel's quiet voice. "I don't -- I don't know what the plan is, after this."

His heart-rate was picking up again -- he'd come so close to losing everything, he thought, in the past few days. But this -- he never expected this. Kenny slid his hands on either side of Cartman's face, pulled at the skin over an eyelid with his thumb. He caught a glimpse of a slim brown iris, the pupil blown wide beyond recognition. _Holy shit_ , he felt the panic coming on. What the hell was he supposed to _do?_ Bring him to the hospital -- get him arrested for using cocaine? Call his shallow whore mother? Everything Eric had was in this room. 

Kenny leaned his hands against his chest and tried to measure out his breaths. "What the fuck do I do," he said, over and over like a damned prayer. 

"You kidnapped my sister," he continued at a whisper. "You broke my fucking heart -- and now this?"

"Kenny -- " Axel started.

"Go next door, Ax. I want you to get the woman Mawal, and bring her here."


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been doing a little bit of back-editing lately -- and damn, i think Cartman figured out where this story was going before _i_ did.

### The Hanged Man

Kenny had paced a twisting rift through the junk on Cartman's floor for nearly six fuckin' hours before Mawal opened her eyes again.

The room was dark. Where the curtains had shifted to allow Kenny entrance, the sky was even darker. He had no clue what time it was; the deep night -- the early morning? All he knew was a sixty-something gypsy woman was his only shot at getting Cartman back -- and the thought was so ridiculous, even after an untold time sitting, standing, and finally pacing the room, Kenny still didn't know if he'd made the right call. 

She kept using this strange language -- saying shit like she was "going in" and she'd "tried to stop him" and some bullshit about the "upper realm," which sounded a fuck of a lot like the afterlife, if you asked him. Kenny couldn't shake the feeling Cartman was, like, fuckin' _dead_ or something. 

He was so occupied with pulling at his theories and his hair that Kenny barely noticed he hadn't had a headache in almost a week.

At some point while Mawal was sitting quietly at the bedside with her eyes closed -- like in a trance -- Worm entered the bedroom. He stopped just inside the doorway to assess the occupants; when his pale moon gaze landed on Kenny, the eyelids twitched in a half-blink. Kenny half-blinked back. Then Worm surged forward and bounded up to the bed. Kenny watched as the three-month-old kitten plucked at Cartman like an old couch, then settled on his chest. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

"I heard cats can like, predict death." Axel had said around a portion of mashed potatoes. 

Kenny cuffed him over the ear. 

" _Sheesh!_ Al- _right_ already. All the laughter's gone from the world -- I got it."

Kenny knew the middle schooler was just expressing his own nerves -- but he wasn't in the right state of mind to receive cynical humor, and the longer he paced the cluttered bedroom, the more he doubted his decision; what if he'd made the wrong call? What if Cartman overestimated him -- and he effed up whatever plan his friend had concocted to _save_ his bloody _life?_ A few times he'd thought of calling Stan and Kyle. But he was worried they'd want to take the obvious route of calling up the authorities -- it wasn't that he didn't trust them, or thought they'd force him to turn Cartman over; he was afraid they'd convince him it was the right thing to do. 

He felt like this whole cluster-fuck had started way back in October, when Kenny decided Cartman just wasn't _close_ enough anymore -- and now look. He was further than he'd ever fucking been. 

Kenny dropped to a crouch and groaned. 

"Hey," came Axel's gentle, lisping voice. "It'll -- I think everything's gonna be alright."

He was pulling at his shoulders but Kenny dropped his head further down and tried to shrug him off. He could think of ten-thousand reasons why it wouldn't be alright and half of them had already _happened_. Nothing was fucking _alright_ ; his best friend took a load of _blow_ and put himself in another effing _coma_ \-- because yeah, Kenny realized, remembering the incident with the Tivo; this wasn't the first time he'd done something like this -- and now his best shot at waking him up was a _psychic cat-lady_.

"What's with -- " Kenny gritted. "This fucking music, anyway? Put something else on."

Axel shook his head. "Can't -- boss's orders. Said he had to 'create a space'."

That was when Mawal opened her eyes. "He won't come."

"Uh?" Axel grunted back. 

Kenny stood up so fast his head spun, and he stumbled over to the bed. 

"He's -- " The old woman spoke as if she were still entranced. "He's created an interdimensional space... _inside_ the Upper World."

"Damn," Axel said, nodding appreciatively. 

"What?" Kenny demanded, glaring between the gypsy woman and the middle schooler. "What the fuck does that mean?"

Axel shrugged his bony shoulders high. "I dunno -- sounds like a trip, though, doesn't it?"

Kenny searched for something to throw it him, but instead his eyes came to rest on a mug half-full of dark liquid on the floor by the bed. He picked it up, recognized it as the shit he'd drank before, and without a second thought tossed it back. He grit his teeth against the unpleasant flavor and hair-curling bitterness -- and eyed the bottom of the mug. Fireweed... he was drinking _fireweed_ tea?

"He won't let me in," Mawal was saying, still staring at Eric's death-pale face. 

"Yeah, he's always like that," Kenny said. "You just gotta find the right window."

The woman shook her head with a soft clang of hanging earrings and bangles. "You don't understand -- he's created... a locked room without doors, so to speak."

And in a surge of true McCormick rage, passed straight from his violent fucking father, Kenny hurled the mug across the room with everything he had -- the thick ceramic exploded against the closed bedroom door and fell to pieces over the rug. He fell to a squat at the foot of the bed. 

"That was his favorite cup -- " came Axel's distracted murmur. 

Then the musty smell of incense and perfume came over him as Mawal dipped down to his level. "What has he told you of this?"

Kenny shook his head, and kept shaking. "Nothing. Not one effing thing."

"Eric has been... soul-hunting."

Kenny coughed a startled laugh. "Oh so _now_ the fuck is soul-searching -- I don't remember them doing _crack_ in _Eat, Pray, Love_ \-- "

"Not for his own," She said. "For yours."

"I -- no. What?"

"This is going to be hard for you to understand, but given the circumstances -- I don't suppose you've suffered any headaches lately? Bad dreams?"

"Not since... Not for a week or so, I guess."

Kenny finally lifted his head to see the woman Mawal nodding. 

"Yes, I believe that, perhaps -- he's succeeded. Although at what cost to his own soul, I can't be sure. He does't seem willing to return."

"Return from _where?_ "

"The Upper World. It is a metaphysical realm reserved for the pure of spirit. Normally, your friend should have been too inexperienced to enter it, especially considering his soul isn't quite -- "

"Pure?" Kenny offered, feeling like he was helping her tell a big joke.

"He was aided by the spirit of a powerful shaman -- Kicking Bird, I believe her name was."

 _No fucking way_ , Kenny thought. This was... this had to be some kind of collusion between the two of them, Eric and the gypsy woman -- it was colluded fucking madness. He tried to clamp down on his temper and focus; he'd poured all his chips into this last chance at getting his best friend back, so he might as well follow it through. As _mad_ as it all was, hadn't stranger things happened in South Park?

Kenny stood abruptly. "Axel -- how much of that shit you got left?"

"Whuh?"

"The _blow_ , man -- how much is left?"

"I don't think -- "

"Give me the same; I'm gonna -- I'm gonna fuckin' go in after him, I guess."

Mawal laid a hand on his elbow. "That won't be necessary."

"I _have_ to do this -- "

"No, I mean -- it won't be necessary to use his methods. I can help you get to the Upper World."

Kenny turned to face her, eyes narrowing. "Then why didn't ya help _him?_ "

"It's -- fairly complicated. Suffice to say his soul has no place in the upper realms; the only way for the wicked to ascend is through death."

"The _wicked_."

"Please -- it's not my terminology."

Kenny sighed, rubbed his forehead. "Fine, so -- what? I can make it without all that?"

"I believe he's collected a fragment of your soul from the Upper World already, so you should have a link. I can help you cross over from the Middle World -- however... it took me quite a while to find him."

"The Middle World," Kenny said. "I remember him saying -- yeah, wait; I know how to get there. And I'll fuckin' find that son of a bitch. I always do."

There wasn't a single asshole in South Park better at finding Eric Cartman than Kenny, he really believed that, right down to his -- well, yeah -- right down to his _soul_ , whole or fragmented. He'd chased Cartman all over town, all over the bloody county; so what if this time he had to journey to the damn _spirit world_ to do it? He'd get in the car and turn the key in the ignition, just like always.

###### 

Kenny opened his eyes in a familiar dream.

 _Not a dream,_ he remembered, his head swimming with the briefing Mawal had given him; Cartman had called this the Middle World. Whenever Kenny had lucid dreams -- _dream-walking_ , he'd always called it -- they took place in these familiar landscapes: endless fields, mountain rages -- things that comforted him. Kenny had lost touch with this world a few years ago; he thought he was simply growing out of lucid dreaming, but in the past few months he'd been able to return -- and he found it changed. 

The fields were in a constant state of nightfall. Starless, and usually lightless but for the moon. But this time there was almost nothing in the sky, only a thin toenail crescent of silver. Kenny guessed it was in approximately the same phase as the real moon. Even under the dark pocket new moon, the fireweed was luminescent; hectares upon hectares of the faintly glowing blue-purple flower had conquered the landscape. And even though the plant made him uneasy now, made him think of death -- it also reminded him of the summers on the Murphy farm, and how every acre of burned land always brimmed with life in the days following the bush-fires. Wherever the fire breathed, the fireweed was there fighting out of the dead earth. It was nature's blow-back. 

Kenny almost laughed. The sight of the fields eased his mind somewhat, and he felt new purpose -- it was time to push on to the Upper World.

Mawal had said she could help him, but how -- ? All of a sudden Kenny was staring through the fireweed fields and into a pair of full moon eyes, hovering at the edge of a wood he hadn't even noticed. _Of course_ \-- 

There _had_ to be a reason they found Worm that rainy night in October. At the time, Kenny was just too put off by its monstrous qualities to see the opportunity it offered: Worm was Cartman was Worm -- a kind of repulsive, unnatural creature, something incapable of being loved -- but only because nobody stopped long enough to realize he was pretty soft to the touch, when you got down to it. Why had Eric saved it, that night? Kenny couldn't really be sure. Maybe he saw the gray creature like a horrible shadow of himself, and took pity on it. Kenny was nevertheless grateful -- he even felt a pulse of shy love for the little monster; it was going to help him find his idiot best friend, after all. 

Kenny shot off through the brush, and began to fully embrace the strange freedom of the metaphysical, and the universal consciousness -- he re-imagined his body, felt the everyday stressors of linear reality leave his bones; what freedom, this was! He felt like he wouldn't've minded staying here forever, maybe -- 

Kenny imagined for himself a wind, an upward draft of heat from the forest floor, and _soared_.

Beneath him the forest grew and spread like a swamp, and Kenny's hawk eyes found a shape out of place -- a familiar shape. He almost cawed his laughter again to the false skies; he knew exactly where Cartman was. Kenny was -- dare he say it? -- in his element.

He dove utterly pure of spirit down to where mountains bubbled out of the ground and folded the land into cliffs and gorges -- he'd said it was the best day of his life. The familiar faces of mean caves and crevices carved into red-brown rock leered up at him, and Kenny angled himself for the dark gaping mouth of the cave where they found Worm, so long ago, scrabbling helplessly in the dark -- waiting for someone to take him home.

The instant the shadows enveloped him they broke, rushed to the corners of his vision and cowered like oil in water until they finally blinked out of existence, leaving Kenny surrounded by bright white. He paused to adjust to his surroundings, watching the small world slide into place around him; he'd stumbled into a snowglobe, it seemed. A deep winter spread out on all sides: the skies were washed-out gray, the ground rippled with wind-ruffled snow, and right in front of him were two lines of black gravel battered down by the tires of passing vehicles. It was South Park's only damned country road, straight from his -- _their_ \-- memories. 

Kenny followed the road until it grew tiresome, and he started wondering what the hell he was looking for, exactly -- what would Cartman even _look_ like, out here? 

_Wait,_ Kenny thought. _What do_ I _look like?_ He drew his consciousness back from the excitation of the metaphysical and began searching for an image of himself. His feet sunk into the crushed snow between the tire tracks with that queer squeaking sound snow sometimes made -- like an old door-hinge -- and Kenny pulled his hood up against the sudden chill in the air. 

_This is..._ Kenny thought, looking around from his new human height. _The space he created?_ It was nice, he guessed -- but it was desolate. It made him want to cozy up by a fire and look out a window at it.

Kenny was moving to hop over the roadside gully when a lancing shadow caught his eye, and he glimpsed some movement in the white plains beyond the road. A murder of crows -- no, ravens -- _no_ ; it wasn't any kind of bird he could recognize from the distance, and the flight pattern didn't make any sense; against the white-gray horizon was a spiraling, spinning column of black rags, shooting out of the snow, it seemed, and then flying out for a short distance before diving back downward again. Like vultures taking a nibble of something, setting off, and then realizing they'd like yet another taste -- 

Kenny closed the gap with a single wingbeat, it seemed.

Even though he'd kind of expected it, the shape of the creature in the snow still gave him pause. The horned thing knelt on the ground beneath the staggering tower of spiraling black rags; in fact, the black things were being ripped from its back like shrapnel from an explosion -- but when they thumped against the outer bounds of the interdimensional space, they had no choice but to dive back down and continued spiraling. Kenny realized he was watching soul fragmentation. Mawal had warned him about this. 

As he approached, Kenny noticed that the familiar horned creature from his dreams was even _more_ horned than usual -- dark spikes had sprung up along its spine and shoulders and even punched out of its chest, like it was being attacked from the inside.

Kenny trudged through the snow right in front of it, dropped down to get a look. "Eric?"

It lifted its horned head as if through a great effort, and two slivers of blank red eyes emerged from the dark twisted planes of its face.

"You, uh -- you wanna get outa here, man?" Kenny tried casually. 

The curl of the dark arms shifted, and the creature straightened somewhat. Kenny realized that it was holding something trapped in its embrace.

It was a rabbit, white as snow.

"What's with the rabbit?"

 _The last piece._

Kenny startled briefly at the sound of the disembodied voice -- brushing with the weak buzz of a magnetic field against his consciousness. 

_It's yours. Take it._

He looked at the rabbit, its nose bobbing and whiskers twitching like a devil-may-care little fuck -- and almost reached out for it, but stopped himself just before the white fur was at his fingertips.

"Wait. What happens to you -- when I take that?"

 _I... don't know,_ came the faint voice. _It's the only reason... I'm here._

"So if you let that go, what? You go back to fucking earth?"

He almost felt its laughter on his skin. _Wicked souls aren't reincarnated, Kenny. They're destroyed._

"Mm," Kenny shook his head. "I don't think so, homie. Nobody's dying tonight. You _knew_ I'd come here to get you back -- so what's the rest of the plan?"

 _I don't remember the plan. Take it,_ it insisted.

"No, come on," Kenny said, scooting closer and wondering if he dared touch the shade of his best friend. "What's the plan? You _kid_ napped my sister, man -- you had to have something on your damn mind."

 _Physical impetus,_ it hummed. _Had to be in... two places at once._

"Well you certainly managed that -- " Kenny said. "Rainer fucking Fichte, _really?_ Of all people to trust with my sister... Motherfucker pulled a knife on me, you know."

That got the horned creature's attention; its back straightened minutely, and the red eyes began to resemble more ovals than thin slits. _That wasn't part of the plan._

"Got me pretty good, too -- take a look." Kenny stretched his neck and passed his fingers over where he remembered the edge of the knife nearly cutting his damn throat. Sure, it was probably an accident, since he'd technically pushed him _self_ into the knife with the whole puking thing, but whatever pulled his friend back together -- he would do it.

_I can't see._

"You're lookin' right at it."

 _Dumb shit,_ it sighed. _I. Can't. See._

"Oh," Kenny dropped his hands to his sides, then lifted them again. "Is this -- is this what you think you look like?"

Finally he caved and reached forward, taking the pair of horns around where his ears would be. "Kinda fuckin' bad-ass, aren't they?"

He saw the red eyes squint. "Whadda they -- what's it feel like?"

_...Hurts._

Kenny released them, and suddenly wanted to wrestle the strange archetype of his best friend into the snow -- push his soul back into place and get the hell _out_. "You're so stupid, you know that? This isn't you, man -- I didn't come here looking for _this_. Pull your shit together and let's _go_ \-- I'd prefer to be in the physical world when I kick your ass for drugging my little sister."

The creature was still for a moment, and its black eyelids angled down at the rabbit.

_You want me... back?_

And Kenny realized that returning to the physical plane hadn't been part of the plan at all; it had only been to leave a candy trail -- provoke Kenny into coming in after him, give up the soul fragment, and allow himself to disintegrate.

"Eric, you -- " This couldn't be right. "You did all this for me?"

 _I'd fuck the_ world _up for you, Kenny,_ came it's surprisingly abrupt answer. _You're my best friend._

And nobody'd do it better than him, Kenny thought -- and he dipped his head to hide his smile, forgetting about Cartman's sightless red eyes.

"I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to hear that."

Kenny scooted forward through the snow until he felt the buzz of Cartman's black hole-looking skin against his own. He eyed the spike sticking out of his chest, then shrugged, remembering that nothing was as it seemed, and impaled his essence upon it -- if he'd had a beating heart it would be totally fucking kabobbed on this thing. But Kenny hardly spared a thought for pain, sinking down till he could sling his arms around the horned thing. "Mawal told me love gets you to the Upper World."

A snort shook through the creature. _That's the gayest thing I've ever heard you say._

Kenny snorted right back. "C'mon, man -- let's get out of here."

The response was suddenly very faint again: _I'm so tired, Ken._

Kenny eyed the wreckage of black rags churning like a tornado above them. How many pieces of his soul did Mawal say Cartman had collected? Three? Plus the rabbit made four. "What the hell happened to ya? You're in so many _pieces_. There's a whole hundred fuckin' crow-looking things flying around."

_Should've seen yours._

Kenny didn't know what to make of the strange sound of awe in his friend's voice. "I don't really get what's happening here, to tell the truth. Mawal said that I got ghosted a while back -- that I'm not s'posed to be alive."

 _Fuck that._ It growled.

"Eric, what did this to you?"

_I cut a deal._

Kenny rolled his eyes. Why was he not fucking surprised.

 _Made the payment,_ continued the voice. _Mighta been... too much._

"Hey," Kenny said, changing tactics. "You should check out this place you made -- the sun's rising."

The buzzing filled his ears for a moment, and the horned creature shifted beneath him. Suddenly Cartman's voice was loud and clear: "What are you -- my horn!"

Kenny was shoved brutally away -- but before his ass had even hit the snow, the horn that had pierced his chest disappeared, taking with it the multitudes of spiked protrusions marring Eric's back and shoulders. Then Kenny was once again looking at the thing from his nightmares -- no, from his walks in the Middle World -- it was the Dark Interpreter who had seemed to haunt his dreamscapes: six horns, blood red eyes, black hole skin. He felt a grudging affection for this wicked thing.

Cartman -- the Horned Lord -- was examining one of his black hands, the other still holding the rabbit to his chest. Then he lifted his red eyes to Kenny. "You... yeah, of course you look the same."

Kenny pressed forward again -- feeling like he was reaching, digging desperately at this horned visage to draw as much of his best friend into the open as he could -- and he put his hands on its black throat. 

"C'mon," he said, again. "Let's get outa here, man. This isn't the end. This isn't the fucking end for you; it's too simple. I'm still really pissed at you -- but I love you, dude. Fuck -- I've been _in_ love with you since that fuckin' _hot_ -box back in October."

The Horned Lord barked a laugh to the pale sunrise, then leaned his forehead against Kenny's. "McCormick. I've loved you since you set the girls' future-telling device on fire in the third grade."

"Take the damn rabbit," Cartman continued. "It's the only way to end this."

"But -- "

" _Take_ it. I promised your hard-ass great-grandmother you'd leave here whole. She'll probably break in here and gut me if I don't."

"Err -- that reminds me, about that appendix thing, sorry if I -- "

"Not your fault -- _take it_."

Kenny took the rabbit. The snowglobe shattered.

###### 

Kenny woke with a singing in his bones and his nose pressed against his best friend's neck. 

His breath caught -- Eric was still motionless beside him. _Was it all a dream?_ he wondered. Then, even more horribly: _Did he decide not to come back?_

Kenny pushed himself up on an elbow to look down at him. The sliver of an eye -- blood red even in the pale dawn light -- tracked his movements sluggishly. 

"You crazy son of a _bitch_ ," Kenny laughed. 

"Whoa," came Axel's voice. "I don't believe it."

"Mm," Kenny hummed, looking into the liquid reflection over Eric's eyes. "I can see me in your eyes."

"I can see you... in my bed." He croaked.

"Was that a _pick-up_ line?"

"You're the only line I pick up for."

Kenny dropped his head back down to the pillows and shifted closer to his bat-shit in _sane_ best friend, circling his arms around his neck. This was how it should be, he thought. 

"Are you two... " Cartman's weak voice took on a suspicious turn. "Smoking _weed?_ "

"What were we supposed to do while you two was passed out? Twiddle our thumbs?"

" _Ma_ wal," he said, incredulous. "What's the big idea?"

"It's -- " Kenny heard the woman pause to cough. "An extraordinarily useful herb."

"I'm fucking dreaming," Eric muttered. "Alright -- get out, both of you."

In the minute following their hasty exit, Kenny felt an arm worm its way beneath him and curl over his hips. He hummed against Eric's throat.

"You stink."

"I've been _comatose_ \-- "

"Should I call Lotus over? She can help you shower."

Cartman groaned and pushed Kenny away to sit up. "My _god_ you're petty."

"'M real tired."

"Welcome to the club."

Kenny heard the blankets shifting, the groan of the mattress springs, then the warble of that horrible opera music finally cut out with a sharp click. Kenny's eyes were just beginning to slip closed -- 

"What the -- McCormick!" He jerked out of his half-sleeping daze. "You broke my fuckin' _mug?_ "

Kenny rolled over and considered the remnants of Cartman's _Crabby in the Morning_ mug a little guiltily.

"Uh -- you deserve it?"

" _Home_ wrecker," he growled, and stepped over the ceramic shards into the hallway.

Kenny rolled back onto his stomach, squinted his eyes against the light peeking through the curtains. He spotted Eric's red hockey sweater and pulled it towards him, wriggled inside, and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jumping back to cartman's perspective for the next one. i think we deserve some fluff. just hang on -- i haven't written a damn word of it yet.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eek! a penis!

### The Chariot

I was probably ten minutes into a hot shower when my heart started beating again. I felt a deep, unsteady tiredness in my bones -- like I'd just been super-glued together from about a million pieces -- but I was alive; I was human; and this hadn't been part of the plan at all.

I designed the interdimensional pocket-space only to keep everybody out and let Kenny in -- I didn't expect it to have the secondary effect of containing the pieces of my fragmented soul. As usual, I'd dodged a bullet by a stroke of luck; fragmentation on that scale would've landed me in a vegetative state even if I _did_ manage to leave the Upper World alive. Which I shouldn't've been able to do _any_ way, since the last piece of Kenny's soul had bought me entrance to the upper planes via Kicking Bird's misplaced compassion; according to the rules, once I surrendered it... I should've been dead; I should've been expunged from the upper realm and either thrown down to _She'ol_ or just snuffed out of existence. But I was put back together. And I woke up.

Funny how things work out, sometimes.

I turned off the water and nearly cut my miracle life short by stumbling over the damn tub, but managed to catch myself on the sink. I had a bitter thought that I oughta become a stuntman, or an extra or something in the movies. That way at least I could get _paid_ for making a constant ass of myself. I could do stunts for Tom Cruise, maybe Russel Crowe -- but I couldn't picture Russel Crowe breaking his neck falling out of a bath tub. _Oh well -- forget it then_. Lucky the hockey season was discontinued at least until after the holidays; maybe by next month I'll be more than this bumbling _corpse_. 

The mirror over the sink was a blank slate of steam, but I didn't much care what I saw in it anyway.

Lifting my legs and bending my knees took some effort, but I managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants. Searched around for a shirt but the laundry situation was dire -- and I didn't feel like putting on something dirty. I left the bathroom at a ricketing old-person pace, was too distracted toweling my head and almost stepped right in the wreckage of my favorite mug, but caught my heel just in time on some of the sandier shards. It was in so many pieces -- a couple of the bigger bits were still recognizable, but even if it was put back together, it would never be exactly the same shape as before. Even if you had just the right glue, and a really good eye. 

While I paused over the doorway, some voices floated up from downstairs; Axel and Mrs. Mawal were down there shootin' the crap like a couple magpies. Only fucking _Axel_ would crush a dub with a sixty-year-old gypsy lady, for Chrissake.

For one horrible second I thought McCormick was gone. The only thing on my bed was Worm -- curled on top of my discarded sweatshirt with his wormy tail wrapped around his paws, staring at me with devilishly slanted eyes from its demonic little wrinkled face. Then I realized the ugly kitten was kind of levitating up and down, and I wondered again if I was in a dream -- but no, it was the rise and fall of my best friend's back. He was laid out like a damn carpet on his stomach, all but hidden in folds of red and black, but I could just see where his legs twisted in the blankets. An angel of death in my bed. What did _I_ do to deserve this? Really, though.

I tossed the wet towel over to the bench in front of my keyboard and leaned down to poke at Worm until he stood, stretched his wicked Halloween-cat stretch, and jumped up to the windowsill to turn his angry gaze into the sunrise. Cats were like flowers, that way: heat-seekers, sun-chasers. A cat's never happier than when it's found a patch of sunlight to set up in; Kitty was the same way.

I pulled at the hood of the sweater and McCormick whined low, squirmed against the invasion of light. One of his blue steel eyes landed on me and narrowed the way Worm's did, on the rare occasion I gave the little fiend some milk.

He shuffled around and reached his hands up to me, and I wondered if I should be disturbed by his fascination with my neck.

"Much better," he murmured, pulling himself up and kind of taking this huge breath against my skin. That really knocked me out -- like, I didn't know if the guy wanted to smell me or effin' _consume_ me; his bloody hunter's hands were drawing lines over my throat like they were itching to rip and tear, but preferred to save the best for last, and savor it.

I got tired of bearing his weight and pushed his hands away to lay down. Man was I _wiped_.

The second my back hit the bed he was crawling over like a fucking anemone. I closed my eyes and let him do what he wanted. Hands carved up through my damp hair and prodded at the knobs on my shoulders, then traced around the base of my neck. "Supersternal notch," he muttered, pressing his thumb into the space between my collar bones. If that don't just turn you the fuck on -- 

"You -- miss me?"

" _Yes_."

I cracked my eyes to see if I was hearing right -- and got an eyeful of this tremendous hunger on his face, the kind of hunger you're _pos_ itive will be satisfied -- like if you had a really lousy week and just found out Sunday brunch is gonna be _buffet_ -style. You never met anybody more straight-fuckin'-forward than Kenny McCormick, I swear. He hated bush-beating, pussy-footing, all nine flavors of bullshit -- God only knows what drew him to _me._

"I'm really mad at you," he said, dipping his head to exhale over my ear.

"Can you -- " His hands were ripping the breath from my lungs. " -- be angry, when I'm not half-dead?" _Maybe a little more than half._

"Well _who's_ fault is that, Eric?" Kenny snapped.

"Mine." I said. "It's my fault you got ripped up. It's my fault Fichte fuckin' -- fuckin' murdered you." It sounded even more unforgivable when I said it out loud -- and it had already been quite something, in my head -- 'cause what kind of sick fuck gets his best friend _murdered?_ Anything that came after that was... immaterial.

Kenny leaned his forehead down over mine; his small sigh was a cool zephyr over the side of my face.

"I challenged him," he said. "I made my choices. You want everyone under your thumb, man -- but you can't control everything. Even you can't."

"I know that now."

"It's okay to give up control sometimes, too," he went on, and suddenly I was looking at all his teeth and remembering a bunch of shit I'd had absolutely no control over -- from shit like sharing a childhood to sharing his dreams and then losing my damn mind over his eyes and teeth -- I had an idea of what to call this feeling, and it was true that I loved him for this long but I'd probably tell my mom I loved her, too, if she asked. Kenny was my best friend and you don't _replace_ stuff like that; but for me, Eric Cartman, being in a state of reciprocated love was sort of like asking a cat to start barking.

"I don't want ya to bark."

"Mmf," he said, against the sudden addition of my mouth on his. 

Kenny had a gravitational advantage. He planted his palms on my chest and sort of _came down_ on me like a goddamn bird of prey -- and I yielded. He was a fucking technician with the angles, and I started to feel my inexperience showing. Like, I imagine lots of people might start necking with somebody just 'cause it gets a little boring and sloppy to just be kissing them; I always considered tongue-kissing pretty unremarkable that way, since tongues're all the same and more often than not taste pretty disgusting. He was at the corner of my mouth when I finally put my finger on it. 

"You taste like fireweed."

"You too," he said, and I lost conscious thought when he tilted his head and moved in like a fuckin' lifeguard. I made a dumb noise like a chick in a soft-core porno. Our teeth clicked together, and I thought that was alright, too.

It felt terrific to get a chance to put my hands on his neck, 'cause he had a real slender-like lamb's neck -- and I wouldn't tell him but it was nice as Lotus's, maybe even nicer, since he had a few variations: a ream of muscle tough as coiled rope crawled up his spinal cord to link up with the back of his skull, and his Adam's apple broke up the soft monotony of his throat with its sectioned bits of bobbing cartilage -- fucking perfect, my best friend. 

When my thumb slid over something out of place, a long horizontal ridge, I turned my face away from his onslaught to get a better look. 

"Wait -- " Fuckin' _animal_ , god-damn. "Would ya _hang_ -on a second? Jesus."

McCormick finally leaned away, licking his lips and looking _real_ self-satisfied, the prat. I thumbed along the thin line of scabbing over his throat. It made him look like he'd survived a _hanging_ , or something. 

"I said no _knives_ ," I said, hissing an exhale through my teeth. "Twisted motherfucker's gotta put his mark on _every_ thing."

"I think it was an accident, actually," Kenny said, tugging a little at the thin hair over my chest as if I hadn't spent about half a decade growing the shit. "Not the... _pull_ in' the knife part, but the cutting part. I had this, this weird episode -- bunch of light all in my head, and I puked on the rug."

So that's what soul retrieval felt like, I thought. Maybe if I'd timed it better, he wouldn't've got cut up -- 

"Hey -- at least this one will go away."

I raised an eyebrow at him, but his hand was already creeping behind my neck, and I felt his fingers brush at the slightly raised edge of the itchy, inflamed tattoo. _Oh yeah._

" _Oh yeah,_ " he mocked, and moved his head down to mine. "I'm not cool with that, really. But I'm glad you're finally done with all that shit."

"So -- what if I had to ink up, like, a pair of sleeves to get out of there?" I said. "Would you still be glad?"

Kenny leaned back again, with this real solemn, considering look on his face -- and that knocked me out, too, how serious he looked. He traced one hand over my right shoulder, bicep, and zigzagged through some old scars on my forearm, then did the same thing on the other side. "Yeah -- I think that'd be pretty hot, actually. If you really had to, I mean."

I almost lifted an arm to muffle my laughter, but I was half fuckin' naked and it really didn't matter. 

"I think," He said, running his hands over my abdomen. "That's the first time in a while I've heard you laugh outside a hot-box."

"Man -- you're a fuckin' knock-out." I said, almost by accident. Fuck, was I high?

 _Well, shit,_ I thought. _If it means I getta look at his teeth -- then I've won here._

His hands were probing at the little lines from my laparoscopic surgery when I realized I was plenty horny. Didn't even think I had enough gas in the tank for that, honestly -- 

Kenny was hum-humming over the territory, prodding at where my ribs came together just below my chest, then passing over my sides, pressing at some of the lingering softness around my belly -- then he planted his hands on my hips and shifted down further to sit on my legs. 

"Hey, Ken -- " I started, figuring I should stop the train before I passed out on the damn tracks.

"I bet you're really tired," He said, lifting his eyes to mine. 

"Yeah..."

"You should," He shifted back and forth a little, then leaned over me again to plant one hand on my shoulder. "You should probably just relax."

And I was in agreement 100% before he used the leverage on my shoulder to drag his damned hips over mine in a long grind.

"God _damn_ it," I choked over a groan. "How am I s'posed to re _lax_ with you -- "

"Whoa," he said, huffing a breath against my collarbone and then looking up at me with this little shit-eating grin. "I didn't know _boner_ frottage would be that effective. Something to, uh -- remember later."

 _Later?_ I pushed myself up on my elbows. "Then what are you... "

He tugged off his -- my -- sweater, flapping it over his elbow brace for a second, and then settled his hands back at my hips while I half-consciously admired the lean lilt of his shoulders.

"You don't mind if I -- ?" 

At its worst, McCormick's straightforwardness was just straight-up assholery, and he didn't even wait for an answer before tugging at my sweats -- and then his breath was ghosting over my dick and I forgot the words to bitch at him about it, and what was I bitching for, anyway?

"Huh," he said, with another gust of hot air, and lifted his eyes again. "Not _so_ tired, then." Just because I was probably fuckin' harder than I'd been in my whole damned life, the piece of shit -- 

"The, uh, the stuff's in the bathroom."

"That's okay," he said, and his tongue flicked out. 

I watched him shift around until he'd found a place between my legs, and I was kind of biting the ever-loving shit out of my lip. 

"Relax," he said again, and oh -- how the tables had turned. 

Relaxing was the last thing on my mind when my best friend's tongue -- the one that had just been in my fucking mouth for about ten hours -- tracked a long wet stripe from the base of my cock all the way to the tip, where it circled -- and then with a slight shift of weight McCormick's shoulders lifted and he took the first couple inches into his mouth. 

I bit down on one of my knuckles, and my arms felt wobbly but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the sight of my friend sinking down lower, lower -- I felt the soft lap of his tongue against the underside of my cock, something of the clumsy touch of his teeth against the sensitive skin, then finally the bizarre sensation of a swallowing motion around the tip. 

Suddenly Kenny lifted his head back up and spat into his palm. "It's a little much, actually," he said, and wrapped his hand around the hilt in a blessedly quick return of contact. "I really liked that noise, by the way."

And before I could grit anything back he was going down again, this time with the added grip of his right hand. I tried to hold my hips back but a few aborted twitches made it through my control -- he only hummed around them and kept up a rhythmic bobbing motion with his pretty blond head; spiderweb tendrils of hot pleasure were sweeping up from my groin, paralyzing my damn legs and tangling up at the base of my throat, trying to push out a hundred different grunts and growls. When his other fuckin' hand joined the team to toy with my balls, I stopped fighting.

"Ken -- I'm gonna -- "

He didn't even look at me.

" _Dude_ \-- " I tried.

If anything the pace picked up -- then the hand at the base of my cock tightened and did this tiny twist-pull maneuver, I felt that queer swallowing sensation again -- and I came with a shudder that shook my damn skeleton around. 

When I floated back to reality and squinted my eyes through a load of vision spots, McCormick was still moving his hand on my dick in these long slow pulls while he used his other hand to wipe at his mouth. It was something I wouldn't've minded seeing, like, every morning, maybe. For the rest of my life, maybe. 

"Did you seriously -- ?" _Swallow my fuckin'_ cum.

"It's actually kind of tough. It don't look like a lot, usually -- but I guess when it's in your mouth..."

I wiped a hand over my face and chuckled because my best friend was fuckin' obscene. "Why did you even -- "

"I didn't have any better ideas, man," he said. "I figured you didn't want cum on your sheets."

Jesus Christ. Kenny readjusted my pants and then did this weird thing; he crawls forward a few paces and then sort of drapes himself over me -- half between my legs and half over my chest -- like getting a hug from a rug. It woulda been pretty nice but I could feel his erection against my leg.

"Oh, hey -- you want me to -- " I said over the swimmy post-orgasm haze.

"Nah, go to sleep. You need it." He said, and sat up. "I'm gonna go beat off in your shower."

"Watch the walls."

He laughed, then he got this real sharp glint in his eye suddenly -- like he's just got this _gem_ of idea, you know, like a real knock-out -- and his eyes like shotguns turn, click, and cock to where I'm half-comatose on my back: "Hey. After I shower, and we sleep -- we should drive down to Waffle House."

"What -- why're you laughin'? _Think_ about it, huh? We hot-box the Chevy, cross the border -- it'll be a waffle road-trip. 'Cause at the end of it's _waffles_."

"...Fine! Laugh your stupid ass off here, if you want," he said, and stood up from the bed. "Maybe you can take a road-trip to the Middle World and walk around in your self-pity -- _I'm_ goin' for waffles."

I caught him by the wrist. "Hey."

He turned, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. 

"Are you crying?"

"No," Kenny laughed. "I really gotta take my contacts out."

"I'm only laughing 'cause, I just realized -- if I can have sex with my best friend, and go on waffle road-trips, then what the fuck else do I need in my life?"

"Good weed, maybe," I added, after a second. 

McCormick laughed, but then he was looking at me with this big expectation in his eyes. "Does that mean -- ?"

I raised an eyebrow. He leaned over the bed, pulled his wrist from my grip and settled his hands back on my neck. "Does that mean that you... ?"

 _Oh, for fuck's sake_ \-- "Are you really gonna make me say it?"

And he did this dumb thing where he pushed his forehead against mine and kissed the tip of my nose. " _I love you._ "

"Ugh."

His mouth hit my eyebrow, the other eyebrow, my temple -- then he starting laying these bites all along my jaw. "Okay, okay -- _Christ_. I fuckin' love you you fuckin' bitch. Now would'ya let me sleep?"

Kenny pulled at my hair until I had to stretch up to keep from _losin'_ any, and he dived -- I thought he was goin' for my damned _artery_ \-- but he only attached his lips to my neck and took a few seconds to probably put a bruise there. That was another rule; _absolutely no marking_. But you'd have to be a moron to give Kenny McCormick a rule.


	26. Chapter 26

### Wheel of Fortune

By the end of December, Cartman's head had mostly healed up; only the deepest part of the gash was still scabbed -- the rest of the dog's attack had faded into purple scarring, and even those would fade more and more with time. It wouldn't ever totally disappear, probably.

"Why -- why's there a bunch of rainbow skeletons line-dancing on your chest?"

"Why aren't there any on yours?" Cartman said, nevertheless glancing down to pluck at his black sweater -- and it was a real sweater this time, Kenny noticed; like it could've been wool. A half-dozen skeletons with canes and top hats were stitched across the chest; it was the most absurd article of clothing he'd ever fucking seen, so basically, perfect for him.

Suddenly Worm bounded up from the inside of the house, climbed his friend like a tree and looked out over Eric's shoulder at Kenny, winding its wormy gray tail around his neck. 

"Mawal gave it to me," he continued, smoothing out some of the wrinkles. 

Kenny barked a laugh, surprised: "Dude -- she's _motherin'_ you."

Cartman rolled his eyes and turned in the doorway to shuffle into the house. Kenny shut the door and followed him to the kitchen, unashamedly eyeing his best friend's ass. In the days following his "resurrection" on the Winter Solstice, some of the color had returned to Cartman's complexion, and although Kenny was still kind of struggling to get him to eat properly -- he looked good. He actually looked really fuckin' good. Kenny, on the other hand, hadn't had a nightmare or even a damned headache since the Krampus Incident, and he felt good. Like, he actually felt pretty fuckin' good.

Kenny dropped his shit on the island and skirted around it to back Cartman into the counter.

"Do we have -- time for this?"

Kenny hummed against his mouth, dug his hands under the weird sweater, undershirt, and traced the band of his boxers where they came up over his jeans. Thought absentmindedly that Cartman rocked sag pretty well. He was noticing a lot of random shit like that, lately -- mostly because it was difficult to keep his hands to himself.

As Worm stretched out to sniff at him, the spidery tickle of whiskers against his ear finally made Kenny pull back, and he lifted his hands to slip them under the neck of Cartman's sweater, circling around the larger knob of his cervical vertebrae where the healed tattoo had settled in. 

"Feel like, one o' these days," Cartman muttered through half-closed eyes. "You're gonna rip out my throat."

"Why would I do that? It's chill how it is."

At the shrug of his shoulders, Worm dropped down to the counter and jumped over to the island to bat around some stacks of mail. 

"I just feel like -- you could prob'ly kill me, but you don't."

Kenny couldn't help but snort, and leaned in again to press his nose to the skin beneath his best friend's ear. Cartman was a genius, probably -- but he really had a hard time processing his own emotions; and an even harder time admitting that he felt vulnerable because of them. But he was getting there.

"Hey -- " Cartman said. "Don't leave any of your damn marks; I already don't wanna go to this thing -- don't need the extra questions."

"Okay," Kenny said, even though he had the sudden urge to bite him, like really bite into him. 

"Are you _listenin'_ to me?"

"Mm."

"I don't wanna go there with a _boner_ either."

"You look really good."

Kenny lifted his head to watch Cartman's thick eyebrows -- one with that new little nick in the middle -- quirk upward. 

"We really don't have time, but," Kenny breathed, and rocked his hips forward. "Ya look really fuckin' good."

He reached behind him and pulled off Cartman's hat to sink his fingers into his hair, raked one hand up over the back of his head while the other circled an ear. 

Cartman heaved a sigh. "You say one thing -- but you're doin' another."

"I know, I know -- " He was really trying -- how long had it been since he last saw him? Maybe a day. But then there was that couple days around Christmas, too, so... _Too long_ , Kenny thought. "I'm trying."

He pulled his hair, curled one of his arms around his neck, and took a deep breath by his ear. He smelled like wool, and that bit of Old Spice. 

"Kenny," he warned. "If I touch you. I'm not gonna stop."

It was getting harder to refuse. And not the only thing getting harder, as a matter of fact. Kenny broke away. 

"I brought you some food," he said, turning back to the island with some effort. 

"Not take-out?" Cartman said, and even his _breath_ over his shoulder was damn near setting Kenny off. "I can't stomach take-out."

"Homemade, dude. It's from Craig's new mom."

"The Asian chick? You have an in with her? Of course you do."

"Yeah -- yo, she's a fuckin' _in_ credible housewife." Kenny said, and set about unloading the containers into the fridge for something to do that wasn't Cartman. 

"My boss keeps hitting on her whenever they come to the diner. I think she's into it, though."

"Tiger needs a tigress, I guess," he said, then bent to pick up some of the papers Worm had knocked onto the floor. "Hey -- what's this?"

"Oh," Cartman said, coming up behind him and settling his chin on his shoulder. "My medical records. I needed them to settle with the insurance company for that appendectomy. Look -- "

His arm came up under Kenny's to point out a line in tiny fine print at the bottom of one of the forms -- Kenny swore hospitals did their damnedest to make these things as inaccessible as possible to laymen, let alone a _17-year-old_ \-- and he squinted down at it. 

"...Celiac? You have _celiac_ disease? Doesn't that mean..." He racked his brains for a second. "Since _when?_ "

"Been on my record since Middle, apparently, when I went for a cholesterol check."

"And nobody _told_ you? Your mom just -- ?" Kenny felt him shrug behind his back. "That -- that ball-licking _les_ bian! So _this_ is why you've been so... so _sick_."

Kenny put the papers back on the counter, and turned to face his friend, finding the dead-eyed acceptance on his face kind of unsettling.

"Are you okay? When did you -- when did you get these?"

Another shrug. "Yesterday. I kind of suspected it for a while, though."

That explained why he hadn't had _waffles_ at the damn _waffle_ house -- Kenny had thought maybe he just wasn't feeling the carb, that day. God, he was such an _idiot_ ; here Kenny was enjoying the newfound freedom of a sans-headache lifestyle -- but he'd barely stopped to notice that the benefits of the old traumatic kidnapping technique hadn't swung both ways -- Eric needed real, physical healing; he was just too much of a stubborn bastard to admit it. His mom was officially on Kenny's growing shit-list of people fucking up Cartman for no good goddamned reason. Well, no good reason in Kenny's opinion, anyway. Sure, Cartman was basically the devil personified in social situations -- but he was also kind of a strange, uncertain thing, and that was important too; same old Cartman, but a new self-awareness.

"I'm going for a biopsy next weekend. They wanna check -- see if I'm not damaged goods after all this time being _un_ treated or whatever. After that, it's just a matter of -- well, you know."

"You wan' me to come with you?"

He jerked a quick nod.

"Gluten-free waffles are _shit_ , man."

Cartman choked a sort of laugh, dropped his head to Kenny's shoulder and groaned: "I _know_."

Kenny traced some circles on his back. He didn't even know how to be properly pissed about the fact that _nobody_ fuckin' _told_ him -- and to be settling a damn _insurance_ claim to find out was kind of like taking spit to the face. Kenny trailed his hand up to grip at the hair on the back of his neck. _Celiac,_ he thought. _The guys are gonna think this is a riot._ It certainly was a bizarre twist of fate -- but he guessed not everybody could make it out with just crooked teeth.

"Hey," he said. "You know what I heard? I heard Asian food is like, mostly gluten-free."

Cartman heaved a sigh into his ear that shook a little at the end -- whether it was laughter or not, Kenny wasn't really sure -- but then he felt hands push aside the open ends of his parka to slide in around his hips. _We're so late,_ he thought dimly.

### 

"I can't do this." I said, eyeing the line of cars outside Stan's house.

"Uh? It'll be fine."

"I know that fucking Lexus."

"Hm."

"If he says any stupid shit, I'm gonna knock him out."

"Don't knock him out."

"I bet two blow-jobs on a knock-out."

That got his fuckin' attention. " _Uh?_ Really?"

I leaned over and put on the emergency break as McCormick made to get out of the truck. "You are such a post-head _zombie_ , you know that?"

"Uh?"

"You always do this. I oughta get a damned cardboard cut-out to talk to after we fuck."

He shut the door, and just as I was waffling over to an escape plan, he pulled open mine. "Come on, babe. It'll be fine. Stan's got some fireworks for me."

"And -- we got enough people for a decent game of laser-tag. You love laser-tag."

I do like laser-tag. I hadn't been down to Stan's basement for a while; we used to hang out there all the time 'cause it's totally bossed out with a minibar and entertainment zone. And watching McCormick dick around with fire was always kind of one of my favorite things.

I slipped into the cold, sunk my Adidas into the slush over Stan's walkway. Kenny was already trotting up to the door and then banging on it like a goddamn hoodlum.

 _Too many people,_ I thought. _I can't do this._

The door swung open. "Where've you guys _been?_ We wanted to start like an hour ago."

"We got lost." I said, before Kenny could open his mouth. 

"Lost?" He said. "You got _lost_ on the three turns to my house." 

"Took a wrong turn down, uh..." I watched Kenny search his zombie mind for any trace of subtlety -- but he didn't try very hard. "...Road head."

"Oh my God." Stan put his hand over his eyes as if it might ward off the mental image, and stood aside to wave us in. 

"Basement," he added, closing the door behind him.

"Subtle," I complimented, leading the way around to the basement door.

"We got _lost?_ What kind of a lead is that, man? You gave me nothing to work with -- "

"I just like to see what you can do when you're pushed," I said. "Kinda disappointing."

"Oh _fuck_ you, I tore out your fuckin' appendix, didn't I?"

"For the _last_ time, McCormick -- that's not what _hap_ pened," I said, pulling open the door. I mean, it wasn't exactly what happened, anyway.

"So where's the fam?" Kenny asked Stan.

"Takin' my sister to look at some more colleges," He said, moving past me and taking the stairs two at a time. "They won't be back for a few days."

"Damn -- you totally got dumped for the holidays."

"Are you kidding? I'm not gonna pass up three days of empty house."

 _Empty house plus Kyle,_ I thought. I could already hear the shit music.

"Missing a trip to Cali," Stan continued. "But it wouldn't exactly be a trip with my parents around."

I paused on the last step. "Shit, ask 'em to bring back some of that Cali kush."

Ever since fifth grade, Stan's basement had hosted countless video game tournaments, nacho nights, and pretty much every new year's eve. It spanned the entire foundation of the two-story house, and included a single bathroom, a couple over-soft couches Sharon thought were too ugly for the main level, two old TVs and a load of game consoles, plus the tiny bar area was almost a kitchen -- I mean, what d'you need besides a mini-fridge and a microwave, anyway? If anybody was in an excellent position to move in with their parents and live the flunky loner lifestyle, it was Stan. 

A pair of screen doors at the back of the basement led straight out to the backyard where the famous Marsh tree-house was still mostly intact in the branches of a big black locust tree. The whole place was sort of like an evolution of my room, at least in the sense that it seemed to accumulate junk like acne. You could find anything down there: new and used sports equipment, power tools, giant boxes of Christmas decorations, sad bicycles in disrepair, a few of Stan's old snowboards in serious need of a sharpening and a wax -- there was even a Barbie jeep sitting in one cobwebbed corner.

Since the basement wasn't finished entirely, only the area around the TVs and the minibar had real flooring; the rest was polished concrete and bare pink wall insulation. Every time we were over, Randy mixed a bunch of drinks at the bar and just about broke his damn jaw talking about how he was gonna fix the place up; sometimes the unfinished side was going to be a home-gym, or a new office, and _some_ times -- if he was really blowing it -- the plan was to make it an area for band practice. That would've been pretty fucking sweet, but the band broke up in middle school anyway. Most importantly, Stan's jungle of a basement made for a brilliant laser-tag arena. The four of us used to go _wild_ in here.

Kyle met us at the base of the stairs. "Well, if it isn't Scarface and Yellow Wolf. You two finally decided to show up."

Kenny took his hand and they bumped shoulders. "Nobody's called me _that_ in a while."

Not since he stopped tagging walls with it in the seventh grade, that is. Kenny was ruthless with a can of paint. Tough to ignore him, in those days -- actually, maybe tougher now -- tougher now that he was so obviously whole and not quite so haunted. It didn't hurt that he liked to put his hands on me, either. 

"Who's here?" I said.

"Just locals," Stan supplied, clapping me on the shoulder like I was one of his fuckin' football goons. I really hated that. I mean, I really hated sports teams that way. "Listen man, try not to piss off Craig today, okay?"

"Why not? I'm so good at it."

"Because he brought _that_."

I followed the class president's gaze to the minibar area, where a stack of beer and a two-foot tall bong sat on the counter. "The forties or the _dragon?_ "

"The dragon."

I swore, and drifted over to check it out. Kenny started to follow -- I didn't see him but I kinda _felt_ it, you know? -- but when I got to the bar, I noticed he'd been waylaid at the stairs by the combination force of Stan and Kyle. What were they talking about? I wondered, admiring the plaited glass and nail-pin bowl. _A hundred and one reasons you shouldn't've brought Cartman,_ I guessed. Trust Craig not to _clean_ his fuckin' glass before bringing it out -- the thing smelled like a toilet and the inside was already flecked with old weed grit. Man, I'd stage a _burglary_ to save this thing from Tucker. _Actually,_ I considered. _That's not a bad idea --_

The four fags on the couch suddenly erupted -- half in victory, half in dismay. They were playing Goldeneye on the old Nintendo 64. I picked out Butters's mohawk, Craig's hundred-year-old chullo, Token, and the last fucker had to be Clyde. The back of Clyde's head was pretty unremarkable.

_I hate this crowd._

"Mm," came Kenny's voice, suddenly at my side. "Me too."

He started toying with the base of the massive black-green-purple bong, and I felt his other hand push under my clothing and start tracing around this mole he found on my lower back the other day.

"What'd Style have to say?"

"Since when do Stan and Kyle have a celebrity couple name?"

"Since they became two assholes occupying the same space."

"What's that make us?"

"I dunno. Kenric, I guess."

He pushed a laugh into my shoulder. "Sounds kinda like Kendrick. I'll take it."

"Not like you to dodge a question."

"Not dodging. Buying some time to think," he said, and drew his hand back to lean against the counter. "Kyle thinks I'm off my nut for trustin' you."

"What's trust got to do with anything?"

"Right, that's what _I_ said. So he says I'm outa my mind."

"And?"

"I said we probably both are."

"What's the president think?"

"Ah, you know him. He's ruminating. Kyle thinks he's got you down, but Stan's -- I dunno. Stan's brilliant, you know? Can't really tell with him, sometimes."

 _Well why don't you just send him another dick-pic, McCormick,_ I thought.

"Fuckin' A, get the fuck over it, will ya?" He laughed. "Sounds like your damn sugar-levels are low."

"Celiac ain't _diabetes_."

"That's not the sugar I mean."

 _What the hell_. "Do I look like a middle-aged black woman to you?"

Kenny grinned at me over his shoulder, then went back to watching the idiots playing at Goldeneye. "You think we should join them?"

I decided to horse around a little instead, and moved to stand behind him, pushed forward till I was right up against his back. "What about my sugar-level?"

"Uh," I felt him fumble, shift, but there was nowhere to go but through the counter. "R-right now, man?"

"Right here," I said to the back of his ear. "In front of these dumb stoolies."

Got my hands under his damn parka and found Kenny's hips, then pulled them back against me.

" _Unh_ ," he murmured. "Holy shit."

I did a quick sweep of the basement -- Stan was digging in some boxes marked with fire-hazard symbols by the screen doors, and Kyle was fucking with the speaker system, so I decided it was safe to work him up a little, and pressed my mouth to the back of his neck. Didn't often get a go at it, at this angle -- and I was all about getting every angle, lately. 

I walked teeth and tongue up the hard muscle over his spinal cord, then started putting a little thing kinda behind his ear; I'd just read about how you could make heart-shaped hickies -- wanted to give it a go. I pushed my hands around till I found some curly hair just under the band of his boxers and tugged at it. He jerked his hips against the counter. I got real bold and cupped him over his dumb camouflage pants.

" _Eric -- !_ " He hissed. And fuck, if that wasn't just what I wanted to hear.

I happened to pass a glance in the direction of the couch -- and made direct eye contact with Clyde effing _Don_ ovan.

Clyde whirled back around to the TVs and made like he was stretching his back or something. I couldn't help it; I cracked up. I put my head between Kenny's shoulder blades and cracked the fuck up.

"What -- _what?_ "

"Nothin'," I said, and moved my hands back to his sides. "Hey, uh, when did Donovan get fat?"

Kenny chuckled. He sounded a bit out of breath -- that was nice. "Huh, yeah, I guess Clyde's kind of the class fat kid now."

 _Cheh._ "I could squash him."

"I didn't say he's _big_ ger than you -- he's just fatter."

"I stuck a little heart on your neck."

That got him. But I was too messed up ogling his teeth to move away when he bent to laugh over the counter, and his scrawny ass pushed pretty solidly against my dick -- enough to convince it something interesting might be going on. The possibility of getting a boner at a sausage fest like this one wasn't half as hot as it'd felt five minutes ago, and I shoved McCormick away. So he shoved me back, and we kept up shoving until I got him in a headlock and he twisted my fucking nipple -- 

"Hey! Come on, guys!" Stan called as he passed over to the couch. "Don't horse around by the glass."

"Yes, Mr. President," Kenny said, pulling at my arm and laughing like a jack-ass.

I straightened up to look over at the couches as Kenny sunk to the floor to lean against the bar. Once Stan and Kyle joined the others, the second TV was hooked up with the help of a split video cable, since four-way splits on one screen was always shit. It looked like they were rotating out in twos between rounds.

"I'm gonna rotate in, maybe." I said. "Crush 'em."

"Mm, okay. I'm gonna chill here a sec. Hey, wait -- " He said, catching the edge of my shirt.

After another glance at the game, I dipped down just far enough to watch him stretch up to me -- and hovered there out of reach.

"C'm _on_ ," he growled, hooking a hand around my neck and yanking me into a bruising kiss. I heard my hat thunk to the floor. 

When I finally moved over to join the gamers, I was feeling light-hearted enough to heed Stan's diplomatic warning and took up a spot on the armrest of Stan and Kyle's couch, as far away from Tucker and his little homies as physically possible without cutting my view of the TV screens. Stan's clunky old gray model N64 was whirring and blowing like the damn Hadron Collider -- it was a hundred years old, probably, but there was never a more trusty console than the old Nintendo. Axel had one, too, and even after he dumped soda all over it and jammed some pens into the vents, the thing could still manage a few good hours of Pokemon Stadium or Perfect Dark. It reminded me of the time I tried to put myself into a coma for two weeks to pass the time before the release of the Nintendo Wii; but I got buried alive in an avalanche and ended up having this bizarre dream sequence of waking up in a distant future where the universe is at war with sea otters and only one Wii is left -- in a fucking museum. The Nintendo 64 didn't need to be in a museum because it would _always_ work. On the other hand, I wondered if that had been a dream at all, or if I'd pushed myself into an alternate reality when I was barely nine years old -- 

Suddenly a curtain of blood descended on half of the nearest split-screen.

"You're getting your ass kicked."

Kyle huffed, made as if to throw the sticky old controller across the room, then settled it back into his hands as his character re-spawned.

"They've loaded a custom weapon set," he muttered under his breath. "All stupid assault weapons -- couldn't hit a wall if you were aiming straight at it."

 _Ah-ha_. Kyle wasn't a bullet-sprayer; he liked the tricky weapons -- the Farsight gun that could snipe through walls on the right setting, the Laptop gun that could double as an automatic sentret, and of course body-bombs -- but those were all things that required more patience and strategy than Craig's crowd could really handle, I suspected. Tucker thought he was good at first-person shooting but he was actually just _simple_ ; I used to bat him around over Halo 3 back in the day, and the fucker had one strategy: get the biggest, baddest gun in the game and trick it out with all the deadly additions: armor piercing rounds, stealth-factor enhancing camouflage, any butt-fucking attachment he could find to make it even bigger and badder. When the gaming zeitgeist moved on to Call of Duty, I quit playing against any company he was a part of -- or at least silenced my microphone so I didn't have to hear him crow over how bad-ass he thought he was. Someone really oughta learn him a lesson, before he enters the real world and thinks a good gun will save him from a rabid dog attack. It really won't. Not with his aim, anyway.

"The knife," I advised, eyeing Kyle's inventory.

He equipped the Snapdragon. _Whatever,_ I thought, watching Stan's screen as he sprayed wildly at Clyde's fleeing character. _Where the fuck is McCormick._ It was kind of scary how annoying his absence was.

"What's with this crap music? You didn't put this on."

"No, I didn't," Kyle sighed. "It's..."

Kyle paused to engage in a firefight with a character wearing a gas mask. Craig, probably -- didn't know why the guy had such a hard-on for the gas mask look, but I guess it was sort of ironic given what a neurotic smoker he was. Blood flooded the screen again, and Kyle swore viciously.

"Fuckin'... pieces of fuckin' shit." Boy, he was really losing it. "I could blow a _snot_ -rocket with better accuracy."

I laughed -- Kyle blowing a snot-rocket would make my fucking day. He was a straight-up thug. A card-counting, backstabbing, Jewish thug. "They're not that bad, dude," said Stan from his other side. But they really _were_ that bad.

"It's this music," I said. "Throwin' off your boy's trigger finger."

"I told Craig he could pick something."

"You _let_ this happen?"

"Look, it's not just the good host routine -- " Kyle started to say.

"You wanna hit that glass. Yeah, I get it."

"So just let it go."

Letting go wasn't really my style. Besides, music was a way to control the space -- why should Tucker have the honor? He got to pick the damn weapons set, already. He was ruining Stan's basement.

"Token!" I called. "You can't be cool with this white people music."

"Why don't you give the stereotypes a fucking rest, fat-ass," said Craig in his nasal sneer.

"Cartman -- " Kyle warned quietly. 

"Actually, man," Token said, slow and guilty. "I'm suffering."

Craig finally looked away from the TV.

"I'm sorry, just -- you got anything else? Something without Adam Levine, maybe?"

"I got somethin' for you," I said, hopping at the chance to address the stereo situation.

Token and I were never terrific friends, or even friends, for obvious reasons. And after that little trouble in elementary when he shot me -- well, we weren't often alone in a room together. But he did play bass in my Christian rock enterprise, and nobody was better than me at calling up stereotypes, especially when they helped me achieve my ends; Token might be smart, well-spoken, and firmly upper-class, but he still laughed at Tyler Perry films.

"Kendrick, okay," I heard him sigh over Craig's bitching.

Fuck it -- maybe Axel changed me. But _King Kunta_ was a sweet fucking song, black power vibes or not. Besides, there was an Othello board of control in my head, covered in black and white game pieces and tipped in Tucker's advantage -- when the music changed, a bunch of his white pieces flipped to black, and I felt a small relief.

Back at the couches McCormick had taken my perch on the armrest and watched me with his laughing blue eyes. Another relief.

"Kendrick?" He murmured as I got close. I threw him a wink.

"You wanna rotate in?" Kyle said, shoving over to Stan to make room. "I'll throw this round."

"You're welcome."

"Don't push it."

"So -- where'd you guys find that glass, anyway? I bet it's one-of-a-kind." I pushed.

"Down around the Four Corners," Stan supplied. "There's a couple nice galleries down there. They make their own shit, too -- right in-house -- no imports."

"It's, uh, the holidays, you know." I said, kind of tip-toeing. "Would be chill to have something like that for us. Like a big gay Christmas present. Hanukkah, whatever."

Kyle snorted. "Even split four ways, a piece like that would cost another trip out of town and like two-hundred bucks from each of us; I'm not spending that much on a bong, I just can't."

"I don't want one like that. I want _that_ one."

"Dude, no." Kenny said.

"He'll never put it up." said Kyle. "I don't know what you're planning, but he'll never bet the dragon on it."

"He just needs a deal he can't refuse." I know Tucker. He doesn't like work; he likes easy money.

"You're not the Godfather, Cartman. You're just an asshole. Even Craig's not dumb enough to go in a bet with you."

Kenny's hand dipped under the neck of my sweater and traced the words inked there. A little reminder of some of my shittier decisions. But this was different -- Tucker and Rainer were pebbles and boulders.

"Why not?" I said to his unspoken warning. "It's _yours_."

"No, it's not -- I lost, dude. I lost fair."

But not really, I thought. If his soul had been intact at the time -- McCormick would've won that tournament. And it pissed me off to be reminded.

"Here," Kyle said, pressing the controller into my hands. "I'm out."

I was halfway through designing a character for the next round when Craig noticed the switch-off.

"No -- No fucking way, Cartman." He called over. "You're just gonna do the same shit as always; park yourself in a tower with a sniper and pick everybody off. It's annoying."

"First of all," I said, selecting the shortest character avatar and changing the head to a faceless black mask. "There aren't any snipers in your stupid weapon set. And secondly, if you're that scared -- I won't pick up any weapons. And I'll still kick your ass."

Clyde unleashed this terrific, wet snort from his spot on the other couch with Craig and Token. Butters was shit at FPS games and probably kind of drunk -- or else he just got a bang out of making carpet angels on the floor.

"You won't get any kills." 

"I bet my ranking will be higher than yours in five rounds, Tucker. I bet all the shit in my pocket on it."

"That's impossible," Clyde said.

"What'you got?" Man, nobody rose to bait like Tucker. It almost took the fun out of persuasion.

I dug in my pocket and threw everything I had on the cluttered table; a few crumpled bills and the keys to the Chevy joined the array of cans and pop-tabs.

"Gee," said Butters, lifting his head from the floor to appraise the betting pool. "That's a lot of money, Eric."

"What're you goin' around with a _hundred and fifty_ bucks for?"

"Wait," I said, digging another bill out. "I got one more."

Stan whistled. I thought absentmindedly that I should probably stop tossing hundos around if I wanted my false reputation as a fucking drug dealer to fade away -- but I forgot what a fortune looked like to a high schooler. Two hundred and fifty bucks was a paycheck, maybe -- but to them it was a shit-ton of free weed and booze. Craig and his little homies were simple folk. Like Hobbits.

"You're betting McCormick's _truck?_ " Craig sneered.

"Sure -- if you put up the dragon glass."

"Forget it; I'm not putting up the glass."

"You don't think you can beat me _without weapons_ in five rounds?"

"Are you _nuts?_ What the hell is your game?"

"What can I say? I get off on risk. Plus -- money ain't shit to me."

I batted off Kenny's hand because it was squeezing at the scruff of my neck and sort of paralyzing me.

"...One-on-one?" Craig said, chewing the inside of his lip. 

I barked a laugh -- "I'm not gonna _give_ it to you, man. We'll go free-for-all, four screens. I'll even give you Donovan; so you bitches can team up."

"And the fourth?"

"McCormick takes the fourth slot."

"I'm not betting on a two-on-two."

"Jesus -- do I have to make it easier? How 'bout this; McCormick doesn't use guns either."

Kenny froze -- Kyle turned his patented suspicious glare on me.

Craig was biting -- I couldn't believe he was biting on this -- and he eyed the money on the table.

"I pick the weapons set." He said. "And the map."

"Fine -- use your custom set, I don't care." I said. "I know every fuckin' map."

"And you won't pick up any weapons."

"Right."

"I haven't played this game in _years_ , man," Kenny hissed. It was exactly the push Tucker needed.

"Three rounds," Craig decided. "I'll out-rank you in three rounds."

"Put the glass up and it's a deal."

"Fine."

" _Dude --_ " said Clyde.

"Deal?"

"Deal."

Kyle dropped his head to his hands and groaned. The class president seemed to be at a loss of how to mediate. I plucked his controller from the floor and swung it over to Kenny.

"You just lost a lot of money, fat-ass." Okay, that was _start_ ing to bother me. He probably thought the only way for me to out-rank him would be to _run_ from him for three rounds and keep my KD-ratio balanced. But Craig was simple. He was so fucking simple.

We were thirty breathless seconds into the first round -- Nas was dropping a nasty verse called _Mastermind_ over the speakers -- and Clyde's screen flooded with blood. "What the -- ?"

"You said no _weapons!_ "

"I'm not equipped with any," I said, pulling up my inventory. I'd only picked up a set of body armor and a shield.

"Then -- McCormick!"

Craig's screen exploded with gunfire, then yielded to a curtain of blood.

"You lying piece of shit -- you're _cheat_ ing."

"I'm really not."

"The deal's off. You said no weapons."

"Double-check with the Jew, but I said _I_ wouldn't use weapons. McCormick just can't use guns."

Kyle's only response was a despairing grunt. Clyde's screen bled again.

"What the fuck is happening to you, man?" Craig snapped at his friend.

"There's a chick running around knifing me in the back!"

"Forget her! Just fuckin' shoot Cartman! We only have to get him a few times -- " Craig's screen suddenly bled again.

"I'm trying -- his character's too short!"

You couldn't punch anyone to death, so I was pretty impotent. But one of the effects of punching is a few seconds of blurry vision. I dropped my character to a squat beneath the sprays of bullets and punched them in the knees until Kenny ran by with a knife. Man, this brought me back. It was like playing Bulldogs over the pond, or the end of elementary when we teamed up to hustle kids out of their lunch money. He was silent, he was quick; he was a fuckin' blonde chick with a knife.

" _No way_ ," Stan said, as the rankings came up after the third round.


	27. Chapter 27

### Wheel of Fortune, cont'd.

Kenny shifted his feet where he perched on the hood of the Barbie jeep in Stan's basement. The lights were off and it was very nearly pitch black; the light from the moon through the screen doors was just enough to pick out the shadows of junk and people in the wide, tangled space. His gun pulsed with a rhythmic electronic beep, like a heart monitor; he could pick out another six matching heartbeats spread across the makeshift arena, and the occasional sound of electronic fire-fights as the others alternatively bumped into each other and ran for cover.

Kenny adjusted the velcro strap around his forearm and checked his life meter. All the guns were set with three lives; Kenny was still sitting pretty with two red lights -- he'd probably taken a hit crossing the open space a few minutes ago; he was pretty sure Kyle had locked down the minibar area, and Token and Clyde had teamed up by the couches, even though it was technically a free-for-all. 

One heartbeat was a hair out of place; the seventh one beeped slower, and at a slightly lower tone: Cartman wasn't using one of the handguns. He was using the bazooka.

Kenny left the jeep and slunk along the wall hidden among crooked shadows of old bike frames. He'd hardly been able to control his own, human heartbeat since the Bet -- it was jam-packed with equal parts lingering nerves and elation; he couldn't help it -- he was coming to a gradual, full comprehension of what it meant to be one of the things that his best friend actually gave a shit about. 

On the surface, Eric was the same: an insufferable dick when it came to people's music tastes, copping racist and homophobic side-comments, making loaded bets to get what he wanted -- yeah, Cartman shoved Kenny around, worked him up just to leave him hanging, used him like a chess piece in his twisted games; it was the same shit as always. But this time, Kenny had a little heart-shaped bruise on his neck. 

It was like taking off a pair of blue-blockers and getting a whole new tint on the world; he saw Eric blowing a bunch of wind about music not just to piss off Craig and control the room, but also to take the chance to put on Kendrick for him -- which was probably the closest to 'sweet' that Cartman could voluntarily get; and Kenny saw him crafting those insane bets not just to wrestle a fantastic piece of glass away from Craig Tucker, but also to win back a trophy he thought belonged to Kenny. How come the guys couldn't see how effin' _sweet_ it was?

Kenny recalled the diabolical little bitch who locked Butters in a bomb shelter when they were ten and convinced him the world was ending just to get a shot at going to Casa Bonita; and then jumped off a fucking cliff the same night to avoid getting grabbed by the cops. _Was it worth it?_ They'd asked him. _Totally._

Now that Kenny was the metaphorical Casa Bonita, he felt a sort of half-responsibility to control the monstrous part of Cartman that fucked people up, that locked kids into holes with lies and blackmail, but he was torn -- because watching Cartman's plans play out was like watching a damn _ballet_ unfold. Like, that cliff-dive was in _sane_ , his motives were de _plorable_ , but it was pretty fucking bad-ass for a ten-year-old. Cartman wasn't the Godfather, he wasn't Hitler or Gandhi or fuckin' Muhammad Ali or any of the people he compared himself to -- and he wasn't _just_ an asshole either -- he was Eric motherfucking Cartman and he'd have his own place in American history, Kenny was sure of it. And if he was the guy knifing people in the back to get him there -- then so be it.

Suddenly an electronic countdown filled the basement, seeming to come from all directions at once, in a computer-woman's voice like the fucked up AI from _iRobot_ : "Three, two, one -- "

The next noise was a crackling simulation of a fucking sonic boom -- Kenny's life meter blinked and lost a light, and a collective groan sounded from several shadowed corners.

 _Shit_ , Kenny thought. He figured he should probably go and find the bastard, since he was toast if he pulled another move like that one. Only the bazooka could load up blanket attacks like that, but nobody liked to use the thing usually since it had little to no short-range firing capability and needed to charge between shots; it was also a fuck-load more complicated than the simple point-and-shoot handguns. 

They'd already gone a few rounds -- it had been sort of tough at first to transition out of the tense video game tournament, but there was nothing like the unbridled violence of laser-tag to loosen up a bunch of adolescent males. 

Kenny had already traced a circuit around the entire basement to get positions on everybody -- he knew where Cartman was, but had circled to buy some time, hoping somebody else might find him first and help chip down his life meter. His only chance to take him down would be a surprise shot. 

Probably another minute or two before the bazooka recharged, Kenny guessed, and he started making his way around the stairwell. Cartman had been Nosferatu this round -- every round had a Nosferatu: the person who's job it is to start the round by flicking the lights -- nobody liked being Nosferatu 'cause it was easy to get blown away at the foot of the stairs. But what if you never left?

Kenny was just lurking around by Randy's hand-saw when he heard another rabbit heartbeat in the vicinity, and recognized the long-limbed figure of Craig Tucker closing in on the stairs. _Perfect_ , Kenny thought. Craig would make a good distraction, and then he could move in and take out whichever one came out of the firefight alive.

Craig fell into the shadows beside the mouth of the stairwell, and just as Kenny saw him start to turn and aim his gun up the stairs, another shadow peeled out from _beneath_ the stairwell, balanced a massive gun on one shoulder -- and fired. Kenny was about to move in during the charging period when he saw Craig grab at the long barrel of the bazooka and sort of swing at Cartman -- but Eric yanked at the gun and pulled Tucker off his feet. Kenny kept to the shadows, turned off his gun to keep the beeping pulse from betraying his presence.

They were talking in hushed hisses -- Kenny crept closer and cocked an ear.

" -- cheating bastard!"

 _Not really,_ Kenny thought. Besides, life cheated. He wished Tucker would stop fighting back long enough to _learn_ from him.

"Don't flex if you ain't got shit, Tucker," came Cartman's low voice. "And, um -- you ain't got shit."

Craig scrambled up from the floor -- he was one of those tall fuckers who liked to get right in your face with his fucked up teeth. Craig had fucked up teeth. Kenny hoped Cartman didn't like them as much as his. 

" -- you think since you talk like a fucking _drug dealer_ now nobody can fuck you up?"

"You had all this time to think what to say to me," he responded, quiet and dangerous. "And _that's_ what you came up with?"

"Nah -- " Kenny heard Craig say in a voice equally low. "I just heard one more thing -- "

But whatever he said was cut off by a burst of gunfire directly behind Kenny, coming from a scuffle by the minibar. When he refocused his attention on them, Craig and Eric were caught in a wrestling match that was half unintelligible shouting and half grappling. He started running over.

By the time he got to them, Kenny had witnessed Cartman lay their classmate out and deliver a quick knock to his face -- and his thought pattern became a string of swears. 

"Dude, stop -- " and Kenny really should've known better by this point but he pulled at Eric's shoulder -- and received a sharp elbow in the gut that took the breath out of him.

"Fuck, Eric -- " He wheezed, but his friend wasn't listening. Kenny dropped to his ass on the floor as Cartman leaned down over Tucker's bloody face to hiss into his ear: "Now you've really pissed me off, Tucker."

 _How?_ Kenny thought. _How?_

The lights came on all of a sudden and the two were surrounded: Clyde and Token sort of pulled Craig away while Kyle grabbed Cartman at the neck none too gently.

"Kenny -- " Stan was kneeling next to him. "You good?"

"Yeah," Kenny croaked, and coughed for a second to open up his lungs. "Craig said something -- "

Kyle was shoving at Cartman, yelling in his face -- it was kind of hard to ignore. Kenny thought of getting a headache before he remembered that he didn't get headaches anymore and he should probably get off his ass and _do_ something about this.

" -- You always _do_ this," Kyle was saying. "Throw your weight around at the drop of a dime, just because you can. You fuck _every_ thing up -- _all you do_ is fuck shit up; fuck up your _own_ life, fat ass -- but leave the rest of us out of it!"

Cartman turned away from him and started walking toward the minibar, but Kyle was in a rage -- 

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" He kept saying. "Can't you just fuckin' _let things go_ for once? You're so _ar_ rogant you can't even let things alone long enough to have _one_ night of peace -- it's all destruction; you fuck up everything you have, and you don't stop there, you gotta drag _other_ people into it and fuck them up as well!"

 _Shut up, Kyle,_ Kenny thought, pushing himself up from the floor. But Kyle was right up on him, and Kenny saw the moment Cartman turned to shove him away. Kyle dodged the arm like liquid lightning and threw a closed fist right for the side of his head; and he probably would've been fine if he hadn't slipped on the damn tile and brained himself on the counter on the way down. 

"Holy shit, Kyle!" Stan shouted, pushing past Kenny to grab his best friend. 

_He's out,_ Kenny thought, falling to his knees by Eric's scarred head. He'd never seen him pass out before. He didn't know what to do so he just kind of lifted his head and scooted under it.

"You don't know what happened!" Stan was saying.

"I know exactly what happened, Stan," Kyle grit back. "Craig says something stupid around the hair up his ass, and Cartman beats the shit out of him! It's the same fucking story _every_ time -- "

"He coulda had a reason -- "

"I'm sure he had a _reas_ on, he _always_ has some fucked up reason -- but that's not an excuse; he beat up _Jimmy_ in third grade to prove he was being _nice_ to me."

Kenny shifted, adjusted Eric's head on his lap. "You beat up a cripple, bro?" He murmured. "That's not cool."

He tried to tune out the shouting, but there were hardly any other stations to tune to -- besides Wiz Khalifa chattering faintly over the speakers. The bulk of the noise was from Stan and Kyle, who continued to argue back and forth next to the bar; more angry voices came from over by the couches, where the others had taken Craig. Kenny slid his hands over Eric's ears for some reason -- _You're not a fuck-up,_ he thought.

"Your eyes are red, you know? Like blood."

Cartman snorted, and began to sit up. "Shut up, man."

He pushed himself into a sitting position against the bar and brought his knees up with a sigh. Kenny stretched out his legs next to him and watched his scarred hand lift to prod at a spot at the back of his head and check for blood.

"Y'gonna need the concussion test, you think?"

He huffed a breath through his nose, and turned his head to the side. Without thinking, Kenny stretched and propped his forehead against Cartman's. "Yeah, shit -- I guess you're just gonna have to stay over tonight, make sure I don't forget my fuckin' name."

Suddenly Stan joined them -- and Cartman's face closed up and turned away, eyes drifting to the side where Kyle lingered, arms crossed. 

The sophomore class president dropped to his no-nonsense football crouch in front of them. "What did he say to you?"

"He said I only go with whore blondes." He spat -- he really looked like he wanted to spit.

Kenny felt a hot rush of fury -- for a whole fucking _bag_ of reasons -- and wondered if it wasn't too late to get his own shot in at Tucker, maybe properly break his nose instead of just bloodying it -- 

" _Sure_ ," Kyle said. "As if Tucker could _pos_ sibly manufacture something like that. He prob'ly just called you fat again and snapped your fucking -- "

"Wait, Kyle." Stan said.

"You _believe_ him?" Kyle said, looking like he was about to turn his fists to his best friend.

"Cartman?" Stan said, but Cartman didn't look up at him -- just propped his arms on his knees as if he was waiting for the next accusation. "Okay, you don't gotta look at me -- just answer one more question: what did Craig say to you, the day Kitty died?"

It was kind of out of the blue -- Kenny watched one chipped eyebrow quirk briefly, and Eric answered right away: "He said he heard my best friend was dead."

"Thought so." Kenny felt a sudden rush of air on his face as Stan rushed past them and sort of lunged across the room to where Craig's little homies were probably fanning their damn queen.

"You never _fucking_ learn, Tucker!" Kenny heard the class president say, and the basement erupted with shouting once more. Kyle disappeared to join the fight. Cartman dropped his head to his knees.

 _He doesn't want to cause chaos,_ Kenny realized. He didn't want to fuck things up every time they tried to have a party or hang out with more than three people -- he thought Kyle was _right_. But Kyle was talking about more than the scuffle with Tucker, he was unleashing all the suspicion built up over their relationship -- it was almost the same shit he'd said to Kenny when they pulled him aside earlier, plus a few extra swears. Kyle didn't get it. He didn't get why a kidnapping had led to a full restoration of their friendship, plus a few swanky additions. Kyle only looked at the surface, and saw all the twisted parts -- "You've got him wrapped around your fucking _throat_ , and you _like_ it?" -- but Kenny knew it was just in Cartman's nature, and he accepted that, even if everyone else rejected it. And right now, it seemed like even Eric was beginning to reject it.

Kenny reached out to his back, but he did that shrugging thing he does when he doesn't want to be touched. 

"Hey, c'mon," he said, and reached under Eric's arms to put his palm over his chest, where he remembered impaling himself on a spike a little over a week ago. "Remember when I said I didn't want you to bark?"

After a moment his head lifted from the cradle of his arms and a pair of red eyes slid over to Kenny. They looked one fine breeze away from shattering, and Kenny kind of choked on his fear, thinking of the hundred soul fragments he'd seen, a hundred crows spiraling into the clouds over a deep winter.

"Really?"

Kenny brought his other hand up to thumb over the purple scarring on his friend's temple. He was the same, but he was a better same; he was a sameness cast in the slightly altered light of his experiences.

"I dunno -- " Cartman went on. "I know Tucker's about as threatening as a goddamn toilet seat, but -- I mean, what am I, if I let him say shit like that?"

"You don't gotta explain."

"I guess -- I guess I'm just a romantic."

It was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard -- but then again, only a real romantic son of a bitch would travel to the _spirit_ world to save a guy's soul. "So is Eminem. In his own way."

He was rewarded with a show of teeth -- and Kenny thought he saw a bit of his old cross-bite in it -- "I can't believe you said that."

"I'm just tryna make you smile, babe."

"I hate when you call me that."

"But you keep smilin' -- so I'm gonna keep doin' it," Kenny said, and managed to get most of his fingers between Cartman's -- because that was another thing he hated: hand-holding.

###### 

After a while Stan returned, popping a squat on the tile across from them and then leaning against the cabinets to slide down to the floor. He jumped up again, grabbed a beer from the counter, and returned to the floor with a sigh. Kenny pulled his head from where he'd rested it in the crook of Eric's neck -- remembering a part of the bro code that strictly limited PDA.

"I made 'em leave," said Stan, pulling open the seal on the can with a sharp pop and hiss.

Kyle joined Stan a moment later, and wagged something under Cartman's nose. He'd packed a bowl, in his cute little steamroller pipe -- the one with the bumblebee on the stem.

"Is this you sayin' _sorry?_ "

"Just take it."

So Cartman took it, dug Kenny's lighter out of his pocket, and lit it up while Kyle slid to the floor next to his best friend.

"I was wrong," Kyle said, shaking his head slightly. "Craig doesn't really provoke you any more, does he? The only times you respond to him is when he's talking shit about Kenny. When you threw him over that fucking desk -- which, really nice footwork on that one, I forgot to say -- and whenever he was sniffing his own shit over winning the tournament... I just didn't see the pattern because it was hidden inside your assholery. I guess, Stan's got a better eye for that stuff."

Cartman moved to pass the pipe back to him, but he jerked his head in the other direction, so he gave it to Kenny.

"It's easy to guess your motives when it comes to making your sick deals and your imbalanced bets, you know? Busting your ass to get into the drug trade, getting yourself cut up at _turf_ wars, for fuck's sake -- it doesn't matter what danger you bring to yourself; you always choose wealth and power. But -- " Kyle dragged a hand over his face, sighed again. "I've never seen you driven to crazier shit than in the last few months. Kidnapping and almost killing yourself in about a hundred different ways -- I've really never seen anything like it. And if it was all to get your best friend back, well -- fuck, I guess I can _almost_ understand it. So I was wrong, before; you _are_ good to him, in your own way. I'll never fuckin' understand it, but -- there you go."

Stan burped, and sighed. "Fuck Craig, anyway."

"It's good to have you back," Kyle said. "Seriously -- Craig's been getting crotchy lately; and like, it's actually a pain in the ass to be around."

Cartman snorted. "Alright, don't bust a nut being nice to me. I know I'm a better pain in the ass than Tucker -- besides, I don't want your apologies. I wanna favor from you."

Kyle's eyes narrowed. "What _kind_ a favor?"

Cartman shifted forward, leaned his elbows on his knees. "I want you to take McCormick to Moustaphe's judo classes."

"What?"

" _Who?_ " Stan said.

"Uh?" Kenny grunted.

Kyle recovered first. "Uh -- yeah, I can do that."

"Wha -- ? Kyle?" Stan turned his furrowed brow to his friend, blowing smoke in his face. 

"We go to the same gym," Kyle explained through an exasperated sigh. "It was an accident."

"You've been... " Kenny muttered. "What the hell -- "

Eric looked over his shoulder at him and rolled his eyes. "He beats the crap out of me and we go for coffee. It's not a big deal."

"Kind of is."

"What's judo?"

"It's a martial art," Kyle said. "Particularly useful for people who are more often than not at a weight disadvantage."

"Oh," Kenny turned a glare on his best friend. "Kinda like when you near _gut_ ted me with your damn _elbow_ back there?"

He shrugged. "You should've avoided that."

"You went right for my _sol_ ar plexus!"

"I think you go down too easy."

"You weren't complaining this morning!"

Stan groaned. "Oh, God, guys -- "

"That reminds me," Cartman said. "I think I won another bet."

Kenny snorted. "You barely made him bleed, bro; that wasn't a knock-out -- "

"I didn't bet on _Craig_ getting knocked out, I bet on _a_ knock-out."

"Dude -- you got yourself K'O'd by the _minibar_ \-- "

Cartman launched himself at Kenny and wrestled his good arm into a half-nelson, and Kenny was vaguely aware of Stan and Kyle jumping up to avoid getting caught in the tussle; so he took advantage of the extra space and threw his weight into a roll that put Cartman on his back and let Kenny slip from the hold. He took up a position on his chest just beneath the line of dancing skeletons, breathing heavily.

"Hm," Kenny intoned, pushing Eric's wrists up over his head with little resistance. "I don't mind this. Why do I need _jew_ -do if I can do this?"

"Technique," he grunted. "You got no technique. You've only got this far on balls and fury."

Kenny waited until Stan and Kyle circled the couch and dropped out of view, then dipped down to nose around his jawline. "But you like that."

"Also -- " He continued. "I refuse to perform sexual favors for bets I didn't explicitly agree to."

"I never said _who_ would be performing, either."

Kenny leaned back to search out Cartman's red eyes; he started to grin, then bit down on the corners. "Hey, uh -- Craig's teeth are kinda fucked up, huh."

Cartman lifted a terrifically unimpressed eyebrow. "If you're implying that I -- "

"I just think he might wanna bone you."

He snorted. "Then he better dye his hair and step up his game, I guess."

"Fuck -- don't joke about that, man. I'll start gettin' nervous around blondes -- "

"Kenny. You know I only like your fuckin' teeth 'cause they're in _your_ fuckin' mouth, right?"

Of course he did. But there was nothing Kenny liked to do more than wring the words out of him.

"Jesus, you did it again," Cartman said, pushing at Kenny's loose grip and sitting up from the floor. "Talk about _my_ fucking sugar levels -- anything else ya need to hear, _babe_? Quick, while my head's still spinning."

 _Man, what a bitch,_ Kenny thought, suddenly brimming with love for his best friend. "Was it worth it? Going through all that shit -- just to put my punk soul back together?"

He snorted, started to get up. " _Totally._ "


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa, so much vulnerability in this chapter. At least -- as vulnerable as cartman gets, I think. usually i love putting myself into situations and asking -- what would cartman do? -- but this was a little tough to write, actually. because it's him, probably.

### The Sun

"Here," Kenny said, finally plucking the keys to the Chevy from his pocket after a few moments of flapping his hand around unsuccessfully. "You drive -- I'm crocked. Just walking is sort of like rowing a boat over pavement."

I snorted. In McCormick-speak, 'crocked' meant 'kinda drunk,' as far as I knew. This evolution of Kenny held very little back. He didn't usually drink -- I guess having such a lousy drunk for a father would have something to do with it -- but after Craig and his crew of butt-pirates left, Stan gave him the go-ahead on a box of Roman candles and nothing gets McCormick drinking and drawling faster than a round of fireworks. 

Roman candles were dinky, though; the most you can really do with one is light it up and try to launch a flaming ball into the neighbors' yards, but they only got six shots and after the third you start to feel pretty stupid holding this big pumping fire phallus. Anyway -- they were totally legal, which is why Stan brought 'em out for the New Year. 

So McCormick hits this box of candles like a goddamn _chem_ istry set -- popping the ends to get at the gunpowder, unwinding fuses -- and so what I did was, I rolled this big blunt and kept passing it off, trying to get him really blazed -- fuckin' _killed_ me. I swear his file at the NSA oughta be bigger than the _Krem_ lin's; you never seen anybody more fascinated by shit that burns at over 4,000 degrees Fahrenheit than Kenny. A big damn blunt hanging from his mouth, right, and he's telling me the properties of _ben_ tonite and all this drop into a coma _bor_ ing shit about lift and delay charges, and how if you're "in a pinch" just any old clay will do -- that really killed me: if you're in a pinch. Like, who the fuck is setting delay charges in a fucking pinch? And he's such a crap student, too; old Keats used to peg him with bits of chalk whenever he caught him sleeping in the back of Chemistry. So then I thought maybe he learned this shit from his Tomb Raider dreams... But even _Lara Croft_ doesn't set delay charges in a fucking _pinch_.

I remembered thinking what a pity it was that this century probably wouldn't see a zombie apocalypse, or something after the fashion of Resident Evil, 'cause most of the shit Kenny's good at only starts being useful when your life is on the line. Balls and fury aside, McCormick was a better shot with a rifle than Kobe at the three-point line; he could parkour his ass up the side of a building with a _broken elbow_ , start a fire with a fucking ice cube and a coconut -- and I could probably go on, even with _out_ mentioning the echo-location thing, which I haven't had a chance to confirm. 

Anyway it's fucking hysterical to watch him get high with that much weaponry in his hands, especially with those manic fucking blue eyes. Sure Kyle bitched me out for it, but it all worked out in the end; by the time the last of the pyrotechnics had fizzled out over the lawn, nobody was on fire, and Kenny was a terrible vision of ghost gray hands and blood-flecked wings -- he was in his element. 

I mighta done something stupid gay, like, told him he was hotter than Lara Croft, and kissed him, maybe -- in front of that big fire and all -- but I don't want to think about that, since it was right in front of fucking Stan and Kyle and I'll regret it the rest of my life, probably. But the rest of my life started to _morrow_. Anyway, it was _New Year's_ , right? That's the kind of gay shit you're sup _posed_ to do on New Year's. You don't even have to be that _gay_ to kiss a dude on New Year's. And you didn't see his ghost gray hands.

They had a drinking game over cards, then put on _28 Days Later_ for the hell of it; it was one of the movies Stan actually kept lying around and not stored on his laptop. All I wanted to do was watch Cillian Murphy squish his fingers into that guy's eye-sockets, but just as the blood was getting really good, some _ass_ hole pitched a _Nerf_ ball at my head. So I had to deal with the crocked class president. Honestly, a few more knocks in the head and I'll become a fucking mongoloid and die suddenly in my 50s. I thought Kyle might rise to the mongoloid comment, but he'd started teaching McCormick the fucking Tomanagi maneuver -- I can't spell it, actually; it's the one where if someone's coming at you, you drop at the right moment, stuff a foot in their gut, and pull them over your head. Kyle is one of those people who get maddeningly _more_ competent as they get drunk. He called it the _Ballmer_ Peak. Kyle only cites pseudoscience when he thinks you're a real moron for asking.

It was a good night, I think. I was so stoned after a while I forgot there were supposed to be other people there, even. But I guess I fucked up again -- like, I guess I could've beaten up Tucker _lat_ er, or slowly destroyed his father's new marriage -- but the last half of the night had to count for _some_ thin'. 

I shoved Stan's door closed and adjusted my arm around the dragon glass Smog. _That_ had to count for something, too. Even Kyle obviously didn't want Craig mucking with this gorgeous fuckin' glass -- I bet Craig shoved to _bacco_ leaves in it, for Chrissake. That's how simple he is. He's so simple he'll put to _bacco_ leaves in a two-foot _bong_. 

"Like," Kenny was saying, his eyes widening comically on the the slushy walkway. "I'm putting a lot of effort into it, and I seem to be moving forward -- but there's _got_ ta be an easier way."

While McCormick bumped against the side of the truck looking for a handhold -- like a balloon kind of sliding over a wall -- I settled Smog in a bunch of grease towels in the hatch. Couldn't wait to clean it, bring it into its new life. Somewhere outside, maybe. With McCormick and some sweet tunes, maybe. In the back of his fuckin' truck, maybe. Yeah-huh. 

The Chevy was an even bigger piece of shit than I remembered. I think the transmission was bugging 'cause the second I started it the beast tried to crawl straight out of park and onto the Broflovski Civic like a dog on a hump. A long night of Kyle tripping over himself to be civil flashed in front of my eyes -- in particular, when he went to the _bath_ room to laugh his ass off about my Celiac, instead of doing it in my face, which was more effort than I usually expected from the son of a trolling asshole -- all those _ef_ forts would all go to waste if I brought the truck's horned grill down on his car. I caught it in time to pass off the maneuver as a friendly ass-sniff. Disaster averted, I only broke about forty of my fingers slamming the gear-shift around, and got us moving out of the neighborhood at last. 

Since I was pretty fuckin' baked myself, everything seemed to be coming up pretty fast, and I think I was driving really slow, because there was this shuffle and snort from the passenger seat that must've been McCormick's crocked laughing.

"We gonna _gram_ py drive the whole way back, bro?"

 _I'm not grampy drivin'_ , I thought, putting on a turn of speed that began to fade almost instantly as I got distracted by all the different gradations of ice on the road. "Potheads are the safest drivers."

"Except when it comes to parking at Waffle House, I guess."

"There were _old_ people, _every_ where, man," I said, suddenly remembering the iron grip of fear that fouled up my blanket high once we were in immediate kill range of old people driving. "It was worse than trying to get into a Country Buffet at 11 a.m. on the _Sabbath_. And I put my fucking _Brave_ heart paint on for that shit."

"Guess y'don't gotta worry about _that_ anymore, man. Country Buffet is a gluten disaster zone. Waffle House, too."

Suddenly my life was looking kind of dreary. 

"Naw," he said, shoving at me when I got _hands_ on the _wheel_. " _Naw_ , it'll be fine. I bet gluten-free life will be a bang."

"Name _one_ chill person living the gluten-free life."

"Whuh? Um -- "

"And if you say Chelsea fucking Clinton one more time -- "

"No, wait -- the quarterback for the Saints! Whatsisname? Brees?"

"...Seriously?"

"For _ser_ iously, yo! I know all this stupid shit -- my dad's got the radio on day and night."

 _Day and night_ , sure. I hated when people said that. Calling you up day and night, thinking about it day and night -- _no_ you weren't, you _liar_. 

"Dude -- if you spent five _minutes_ at my place you would know how wrong you are."

"Whatever. I'm not taking my car through all those fuckin' pot-holes just to find out."

"You don't even _know_ ," he said quietly, sinking down in his seat."You're only _guess_ in' what the roads're like."

"Am I right?" I said, pulling into my neighborhood. It was a desolate, black-going-gray pre-dawn, probably right when I'd be getting up for the early baking shift at Lou's; the winter skies are just starting to turn. The days only get longer after the Solstice -- as the Earth wobbles around on its axis, trying to warm its ass after all these months of throwing shade.

"Am I _right_ , though?" I reached over and jerked his hood down. He was giggling again, holding his glasses like they were about to jump off his face. And I kinda started laughing too, to tell the truth; that's what makes teenagers so terrifying, I think, and so _stu_ pid -- like, you know they're not laughing at anything _de_ cent, but they all do it anyway, louder and louder, just to make other people think they've got something decent. But they're all just barking. You can hear them for blocks.

"It's probably an even bigger shithole than you imagine."

"Yo -- " I suddenly got a raging idea. "We should hit the road. Fuck high school."

He sat up and stretched. "Sure. Can we sleep a little bit first, though? And then maybe eat breakfast."

 _Fine_ , I thought, cataloging the highdea away. "If you're cool with having that Chinese food. Don't have anything else. Cat food -- cat food is gluten-free."

He gets up on his effin' _knees_ in the passenger seat -- you know when Kenny's drunk 'cause suddenly he's got the same restless fluidity as Axel; I used to joke about how his parents couldn't afford the Ritalin. That was before people realized 'ADHD' was just a way of diagnosing a 'not interested in eating your shit' attitude in mostly pre-adolescent boys. Anyway, Kenny gets up on his damn knees in the seat with another one of those real sharp ideas in his eyes.

"Dude, you got plans tomorrow? 'Cause I was gonna go to Murphy's and get some meat. And you should come -- like, you never seen anythin' like old lady Murphy with a butcher's knife -- and we can pick up _ba_ con, real bacon, and I bet they'll 'ave _eggs_ , real eggs... "

As opposed to the _Made in China_ variety, I figured.

"I was gonna sell dope outside a laundromat," I said. My only plans for tomorrow were to do nothing. "But I guess I can move that to the afternoon -- "

"Forget the dope," he said, bracing his hand on the shoulder of my seat and almost sliding over the fucking arm rest. " _Breakfast_."

"O _kay_ \-- hey, can ya sit the fuck down? I'm about to turn."

Instead of sitting, he pushed a hand against the roof as I turned into the driveway. "Gluten-free life will be a bang, right?"

I was pulling the beast into park behind the Volvo when I had a sudden vision of the Chevy crawling right up over my car and crushing it. Fuck, what if it just decided to get _busy_ with my secondhand sedan sometime in the night -- morning? This wasn't sitting right with me. I bit my lip. "It'll be a bang."

I was just trying to crank up the e-brake when he climbed over the damn console. 

"Hm," a breath of air hit my brow as my best friend settled his knees into the seat and sat in my fuckin' lap -- like I'd ordered him from a parking lot or something. "Yeah, this could probably work."

He used _my_ nose to push his glasses up, took my hat off and flung it into the passenger seat. It wasn't a big deal, but the way Kenny did it was like if he grabbed a glass out of your hand and shattered it against a wall 'cause it _bo_ thered him or something. Which, considering what happened to my _last_ favorite mug -- 

"Stop thinking," Kenny said -- but it was hard when his gloved hands were closing around my throat and he was close, _too_ close and my thoughts were slipping, sliding, careening into each other as my stream of thought scattered into about six million tributaries. 

"You wanna do this -- _here?_ " I said, finally settling on a course. "It smells like a hundred dead cigars -- "

But _he_ didn't. McCormick smelled like if you laid something out in the sun a long time. Plus the tang of gunpowder. He bullied my head into an angle and pushed his lips against mine just slightly off-center, a cute trick he learned to keep me from taking over -- since you really can't do much with somebody macking on the side of your damn mouth. I thought absentmindedly that, if I _had_ ordered him from a parking lot, I'd probably be pissed about getting the goddamn dominatrix bundle.

He broke away after a flicker and a promise of tongue -- and moved forward to press his cheek to mine, like a cat scenting up a piece of furniture.

"You needa shave."

"Ha-ha. Look at Cartman, the portrait of inadequate fathering. You should call up my therapist. Can we get out of here, _please?_ "

"That's not what I was saying at all, but -- now that you mention it -- the inadequate fathering bit explains a lot."

After one of those lousy deep breaths right against my neck, he was back nipping at the ear he most liked to fuck up. The thing is, if you ordered a hooker to do all this stuff, it would just be crappy foreplay. But Kenny didn't really _do_ foreplay -- he just did exactly what he damn well pleased.

"Kenny -- seriously," I tried to push at his hips but it had the counterproductive side-effect of him pushing back against me. " _Dude_ , that creepy effin' cat from Mawal's place is staring straight at me."

He pulled away, craned around to look out across the yard, where a pair of big reflective eyes was hovering at the edge of the property, blinking right through the damn window. I wanted to get my hand under his parka, put it up that twist in his back, maybe, but -- priorities. 

"That is creepy," he said, then pulled the lock on the door. "I actually really have to pee."

With one good knock of a salty boot heel against my kneecap and a near elbow in the face, Kenny scrambled out onto the driveway and I followed, stopping to pick the glass out of the hatch. He was damn near hopping on the doorstep by the time I got the keys in the lock, then shot past me into the darkness. I heard a sharp _click_ echo up the column of the stairs, then feet on the steps. 

_No fucking way did he just use a_ tongue- _click in my fucking house._ I felt strangely invaded. I'd built up this cool citadel of stillness and shadow like a big shrine to my solitude, but I was only undisputed king of the territory until some dork who navigates in the dark with _tongue_ -clicks comes along and ruins it. Turn off the lights to keep people out, block out the sun and people admit they can't see. Not McCormick. 

"Worm," I called lamely -- then coughed for a bit. My lungs were pretty cruddy, to be honest. I set Smog on the counter in the kitchen. A shadow dripped from the top of the fridge to my shoulders, then down to the island to sniff at the cruddy bong. "Why don't you keep that big fuckin' dildo off my lawn? Go battle it in the Middle World, or something. Tear its eyes out -- what the hell do I feed ya for?"

"Actually, Solembum would kick your ass. Maybe... should I start feeding you baby's blood, or something?" I thought, cracking open a fancy canned feast of liver and kidney and shelling some of it into his dish on the island. Mom would kill me -- I mean she'd be really disappointed, or whatever -- if she saw me, feeding the cat on the counter. I was drifting, suddenly.

Worm crouched on his haunches in front of the dish and started wolfing it down. He had so little fur, I could see everywhere his skin wrinkled over his winged shoulders. He looked like an old-school vampire in the larvae phase. 

"I don't get it," I sighed, flicking at the tip of his twitching tail. "I mean, she's gotta be a soul hunter, I'm sure of it, but what the hell's with all the cats? I have this theory; they're actually _ves_ sels for souls she couldn't get together totally. Like, maybe one piece is lost, or the body ain't around. But... maybe I'm looking too far into the habits of a crazy old cat lady. _May_ be."

I moved my hand up to Worm's flopping flesh-colored bat ears -- God, but he was an ugly, strange thing. "What did you mean, when you said I had a thousand dreams to go before I woke up? Did you mean the thing on the Solstice?"

" _Or_..." I beat another path through the thicket of tangled thought. "Am I still dreaming? If I can wake up in the middle of a dream, and keep dreaming -- then what's the point of ever going to sleep?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that disturbing conversation with your cat, if you want," Kenny padded into the kitchen on silent sock feet, wiggling a toothbrush in his mouth. "I'm a little worried about your crazy. I feel like it gets bigger in this house."

 _Fool,_ I thought.

"I really hate the taste of beer, actually." said crocked McCormick. "And I just don't see the point of alcohol if it's not a hundred-proof."

Well, that was the most trailer park thing he'd said all night. Worm lifted his head, licking his gross kitty food from his lips and fangs, and watched Kenny spit into the sink. 

"Well?" He asked, starting to go through the cabinets. "What's Worm got to say? Does he help you process this shit?"

"I've seen things you wouldn't believe, McCormick."

"Take it easy, Batty," he said, filling a glass up with water at the tap, and tossing it back. "It was pretty cool when you explained it the first time -- I really liked the bit with the firey rings -- but all those abstract ideas for sure aren't gonna get you laid."

 _Didn't they, though?_ I thought, at the same time probing his newly acquired referential knowledge of sci-fi. How much had he fuckin' hung out with Stan, anyway? First it's Star Trek, then suddenly obscure shit like Sixth Finger Society and now _Blade_ runner -- I gotta pull him out of it with some Mel Gibson or something.

"Yeah, man -- _Thunderdome!_ "

There was a little bit of light from the window over the sink. A streak of silver slid across his glasses as he turned around to lean against the granite -- I felt that curious drift again, like I was shifting slightly to the left of myself, or something. I know it's fucking crazy -- it was like inhabiting my own shadow. _I'm high,_ I remembered. 

Kenny lifted his eyebrows at me. I heard the _clink_ of the glass hitting the counter, and the shift of air as he got close. My hand lifted, so I pushed my fingers under his hood and nudged his glasses up his nose with my thumb. Everything was black and gray. He spoke in subtitles.

"Listen -- so I've been thinking. You know how I stuck that _rab_ bit into you, which is the on'y reason you got t'meet Kickin' Bird; and then on the flip side _Worm_ shows up outa nowhere like this _in_ verse rabbit, which is the on'y reason you met the old bag -- whatsername, Mawal -- "

"No, Kenny."

"Huh? Just listen to me, dude, I've got this -- this whole theory; it's bang on if you give it a chance -- "

"I'm too baked."

"Well, alright. You'll give it a chance, though, when I bring it up -- "

"Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up. I was having a moment."

"Oh, alright. Alright."

"It's not al _right_ , it's fucking gone now."

"Maybe it'll come back. No, wait -- I can see it growing smaller in your eyes. Sorry, dude." But he didn't look sorry.

 _Ugh_ , I couldn't even have a decent out-of-body experience with him around. All that time I spent occupying my shadow in this house made me strange, I think. Like I'd been living two lives -- one kind of outside and one kind of inside -- and now Kenny was trying to shove those two together and make a whole thing.

"I gotta... rip a piss." Boy, was I frosty. 

After a sobering glaring contest with the creature in the mirror, I crossed the threshold into my dark bedroom, unconsciously dodging the crushed mess of my favorite mug. I'd already cleaned it, but I still kind of felt like that shattered thing was there.

I was wiping toothpaste from my mouth and sort of falling onto my bed -- when I caught a fly on the wall.

"No, c'mon, don't. Don't fuck with that."

"Why not?" He said. I rolled onto my back to watch his silhouette by the mask wall.

"I don't like to see it in your hands. Put it back on the wall, hey -- "

He laughed, continued to futz with the mane and poke at the horns. "But this is _you_ , man."

The uppermost set of spiraling foam horns was still mangled from the Krampus incident; I hadn't gotten around to repairing it. He'd been trying to kill it. McCormick. I mean he'd really been trying to kill that fucking thing. I had to listen to a whole rant over the phone about it from Fichte. He said I never told him about any _skull damage_ when we made the deal -- so I played the card of equivalent exchange and told him we also decided on _no knives_. Rainer was a twisted bastard, but he was so admirably perfect at _be_ ing a twisted bastard that I wasn't even really mad at him for any of it.

"And this one, too." Kenny said, poking at the mask nearest on the wall: the Minotaur. "But they're different -- you kinda evolved into this horny one."

"The horny one, right. That's me."

Sure, maybe -- like a fucking Pokemon, the way he put it. The Minotaur was just a monster, after all -- but Krampus is a monster with a purpose.

"Put it down, hey -- "

"Alright, alright." He finally put the broken mask back on its hook. "I like this weird shit you do."

 _Uh-huh._ I pulled my sweater off, 'cause it was getting scratchy, and wondered if I had what it took to kick off my jeans before falling into a coma. I missed the Ballmer Peak by about a tenth degree exponential, though, and I was just sort of throwing my hands at the clasp on my belt and hoping something would happen. "Myeh," I said.

There was a thump on the bed, a weight on my legs, and Kenny's hands made short work of the belt, the button, and the zipper -- I wondered if he'd peed out just enough beer to hit the Peak -- and then he planted one of his damn legs firmly against my crotch and pushed his hands up under my shirt. Fuck if I was getting _any_ fucking sleep like this.

"Why'd you take off your shirt?" I muttered, trying to distract from his crawling pinching hands.

"Why didn't you take off yours?"

I hated when he answered my questions with questions.

"But you do it all the time," he said, leering down at me. 

"I thought ya wanted to _sleep_."

"The sun's rising," he said. "Haven't you always wanted to have sex while the sun rises?"

 _Maybe_ , I thought -- but choked around it when he pushed his other knee between my legs and dragged his hips against mine, and fuck if he wasn't already fuckin' hard. 

"Can I -- ?" He said, breathless from his own rutting. I thought of the Chevy's horned grill. "Can I -- ?" He said again, pleading.

 _Fucking hell_ , I bet this got all the girls -- all he had to do was hover over them with his lithe, savage beauty and hump them like a post for a bit until the consent was issued. 

"Seriously?" My voice hadn't hit that register since elementary.

"C'm _onn_ ," he said, and he couldn't reach my face but started gnawing at my damn collar bone. "The sun'll be risin' -- you'll be moanin' -- "

"Oh, _Jes_ us, Kenny -- why don't you write me a fucking _son_ net instead?"

"C'mon," he said again, and my dick was half-interested but _I_ certainly wasn't.

"Look, I've had a few too many uncomfortable anal probes in my life, and I'm not sick enough to start seeking them out -- "

"My dick isn't alien tech _nology_ , bro -- and what were the other ones?"

"Well, I got butt-raped at the hospital, of course, before the appendectomy."

"Why?"

"They had to fill my large intestine with _water_ to check if I had a shit blockage. I said I _know_ I don't have a shit blockage but they did it anyway. It was horrible," The memory was working me up, it really was. I pulled up my knees a little; he sat up and leaned his elbows on them. "And you know what they did, to _save time?_ I've got a phallic object up my ass, intestine filled with water, right? And they start doing a _CAT_ scan at the same time -- but to _do_ the scan I need an injection of something that they tell me is gonna make me feel like I'm _pissing_ myself, can you believe it?"

" -- like, I'm already in the most humiliating fucking position of my life, but let's top it off with a _pissing_ sensation. And you know what they said to me?"

I sat up and took his face between my hands to make sure he was listening. "This nurse says to me, while she's draining this shit water into a bag, she says: 'You're very mature for your age.'"

"Like, what was I _s'posed_ to do, _huh?_ " I demanded. "Make a fuckin' _dick_ joke? Say 'hey, did you guys look at my web history and figure out all my kinks?' 'Don't tell my _boy_ friend about this?' _No_ , I just fuckin' _took_ it, man. I'm not even a legal adult and I've been violated by medical care in the United States more ways than I can count. We've got no _rights_ , you know? All we can do is _take_ it from them, like little bitches. The game is to keep young people as powerless as possible until they're too fucked up to care. Like, by the time I'm 18 I won't even _give_ a damn anymore, I'll be so used to it -- so used to that _pissing sensation_ , right? It's like the credit requirements at school; we're already getting fucked, so what difference does one more lame provision make? What's one more added _pissing sensation_ to top off the humiliation of a legal rape? We never had a choice -- so go ahead! Rest your dick in my mouth, too, while you're at it!"

I felt like my shadow was growing, or something. Things were going dark at the corners.

"Yeah -- it's like, your aura, dude?" He said, pointing at the empty fuckin' space around my head. "I wasn't sure, sober, but you've definitely got something here. And it's kind of a ranting asshole."

"Screw you -- "

"No, look -- I don't think it's a bad thing. I'm glad you found a metaphor for your experiences fighting authority, man -- I love it, I really do. It's... jarring." He said, the jack-ass. I could tell he felt really witty, talking like that with his hands creeping over my chest. "I know you're trying to kill my boner, too, but the sun's rising and it's not gonna _work_."

McCormick wiggled up fully onto his knees and found that sort of paralyzing grip on the back of my neck. His tone changed. "It sounds _trau_ mitizing, homie. Let me _un_ -traumatize you."

" _This_ is your plan? _Shock_ therapy?"

"C'mon," he whined, rocking against me. "I'm not the _gov_ ernment, man -- I'm the _op_ posite. I'm fuckin' -- I'm _Yell_ ow Wolf, 'member? They put a radio collar on me freshman year for skipping class so much."

I remembered that, that was fantastic. There was a truancy suit; he'd had a radio anklet and a fuckin' officer assigned to him for months afterward. I guess he had a point. Kenny was the thorn in the side of the system; he was the _'fuck you'_ carved on its walls -- the goddamn spirit of nihilism. And hadn't I always kind of known it. I think I had sex with Lotus to feel like I had power over something wild -- but Lotus was a wild thing bred in _captivity_ compared to McCormick, and I never really stopped comparing her to McCormick.

"I don't even know what that means, but sure. Nilism."

" _Ni_ hilism."

I was getting sick of the hound-in-heat act but he was up on me like a _Band_ -aid and I had this terrific view up his back, all milky white in the paling dawn. _Fuckin' sweet_ , I thought, lifting my elbows to my knees to trace his sharp shuddering shoulder blades. I felt his hands drag up my back. Maybe he knew I was waffling. I wasn't even baked enough anymore to justify the fact that he drove me to distraction. Just his fuckin' hand driving up into my hair brought my thoughts to an ominous flat-line -- like, I wouldn't've considered myself the type of guy who likes to be _pet_ , really, but it was out of my control, I guess. Kenny used his grip to force my head down over his shoulder. His mouth hit the knob of cervical vertebrae just over Rainer's brand. He spent some time there. 

His back tensed under my hands as he ground his hips into me again. "I want you," he said, right into my ear.

 _Well, fuck._ I guess I'd probably wanted him all night. Since the fire. Since he told me not to bark, maybe.

Suddenly my armful of McCormick vanished. It was pretty cold. I kept forgetting to close the window, and since _some_ body broke the damn screen off -- 

"Got it," came Kenny's voice, followed by the _thunk_ of the wood frame hitting the sill. He was gray now, in the light -- not so much a shadow anymore. I was stuck to the bed like a bump on a log; I didn't even bitch at him for messing with my stereo system. Did he know the unlock code on my laptop? He probably knew my fucking _social_ , too.

"I don't know your social -- not anymore, anyway. And dude, your password has been _suck my balls_ since, like, the fourth grade."

"I keep forgetting to change it." I knew what track he was looking for, and on what _play_ list he was looking for it _on_ , even before the first few notes faded in over the speakers. The piano line dropped first. He doesn't know, but I can actually play it.

"You _can?_ Oh, man, that's fuckin' -- that's fuckin' romantic as fuck."

I snorted. The song's tagline was J. Cole asking if he could _hit it in the morning_. Maybe not _so_ romantic -- but it was the closest this playlist got to it. "Look, dude, Drake doesn't do anything for me. He really doesn't."

"Then it's a good thing you're not having sex with _Drake_." I watched as the gray McCormick lanced back across the room to start digging in the nightstand. 

"Anyway. It's on _your_ fuggin' playlist." He said. "Hey, have you got any -- ? Yeah! Found it."

"Found that in my mom's room," I said, eyeing the tiny bottle of lubricant, then dropped my head to my knees.

"Whoa, okay -- close call, but still standing tall. That was your last shot at killing my boner." And he was back on the bed and pushing at my arms to snake between my legs.

"Hey," he murmured. I stared at the angle of his clavicle. "Hey -- let Drake talk you down, huh? I'm watching you, man -- you've got these, like, _doubts_ , and instead of letting them be you're just _chew_ ing on them until they don't even look the same anymore. _Stop_ it. Don't take your surgery and make it a reason to hate _right now_. You think if you lose con _trol_ for a second everything will go to shit -- but that's not what happened, right? What about all the good shit that's happened without your control?"

I remembered watching my mother pushed over the edge by the arrest; I remembered Kitty's shameful death. I remembered losing my grip on Rainer, almost dying in my own back seat -- I even remembered watching Fichte murder my best friend. Guilt is the kind of thing that you can starve or feed but in the end it never dies.

"You found Worm," he said, bringing his hands to my shoulders. "And then Mawal -- and because o' them, you did all that _other_ shit, you know, the important stuff -- and 'cause of the rabbit you got to make that deal with Kicking Bird, right? Because otherwise I'd still be, you know, _dy_ ing every day..."

"What's your point?" I said it because I was afraid he'd say _thank you_ or something, and that would make me feel like shit.

"Well," he said. "It had to be you, didn't it? Like, in any other version of the universe I'd be dead -- but in this one, I gave you a rabbit."

"So?"

"Doesn't that mean that, in this reality -- " He shuffled on his knees, started pushing his fuckin' hands around my head. "We're soulmates, kinda?"

Either Kenny was a _fool_ , or he knew better than all of us.

"Was that your _bang-on_ theory, McCormick?" I said, finally lifting my eyes to his. "That is _too_ gay."

"Not as gay as we're about to be."

His hands fell over my back again, this time dragging my shirt with them on the way back up. "The sun's rising," he said again.

Kenny focused his weight down on my shoulders until I laid down, and his shadow fell over me. I was prey. I was total fucking prey under his eyes.

"Kyle said," he breathed, slid his hands up my chest and settled them at my neck. "That I've got you wrapped around my throat."

"Wrong," I choked. "As usual."

"I let him believe it."

Kenny shuffled to jam his damn knee between my legs again, and dropped his mouth to mine like he'd been _star_ ving all this time -- maybe I had, too. I drew a hand up his terrific back, over one of those big broad slates of muscle alongside the spine -- what are those things, anyway? "What are these -- what are these called?"

"Latissimi dorsi," he murmured.

"That's so fucking complicated."

"Lats. Just lats." _Oh, alright._ Kenny had terrific lats.

I'd found a grip on the back of his neck and started a lazy count of his vertebrae with my other hand. I was just trying to push my tongue past his -- track along his teeth, maybe -- when I think I started trying to roll us over, because the pressure on my windpipe increased and he fuckin' _snarled_ at me: _"No."_

The knee between my legs shifted -- I felt him hard over my hip. Should've known sleeping with my best friend would feel something like fighting for my lousy life. I was searching around in my brain for that booklet, fairly certain that this horrific tightness in my chest was the need to breathe but I couldn't remember what a bloody lung was, even.

"Ken -- " I tried, in the half-second my mouth was freed as he searched out a new angle. His hands had left my neck to crawl over my head and I was _still_ choking.

"Yeah?" He said, baring his teeth and snapping them down over my lip while his damned leg pressed against my crotch. It was far beyond my ability to stifle the noise that tore from my throat -- I was officially uncomfortably hard and wide awake.

"Myeh," I decided.

"Fuckin' hell, Cartman," he swore, laughing, and suddenly I was staring at his collar again as he stretched up to press a kiss to my forehead. My _fore_ head, for Chrissake. Like we were out _straw_ berry picking or something, instead of rutting around half-naked while the sun rose. For some reason it was the fact that he used my _last_ name that got me -- it was the same kinda way he bugged me about letting him be the chick character when we played video games.

"Yo," he huffed, drawing away. "Let's turn it up a notch."

I leaned up on my elbows and raised an eyebrow.

He was pulling at my jeans. "Kendrick just came on."

 _Oh,_ I hadn't even noticed. Never thought I'd be necking to a song about diving into a pool full of liquor. It wasn't really my style. I heard the clatter of my belt probably hitting some junk on the floor, lifted a little to help him discard the rest of the clothing. While Kenny rolled around to kick off his pants, I patted around for the lube -- where the fuck -- ? Oh, got it. It didn't smell like anything, either. "Hey, you like grapefruit? I heard -- "

"What'you doing?" He said, rolling back over and trying to scoot up to me. 

"I just wanna -- " I never planned out the last bit of the sentence, though. I pushed at his chest until he fell off his knees to his ass, and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock.

"Why you always gotta -- _unh_ \-- " he broke off with a grunt as I leaned down and passed my tongue over the precum gathering at the tip. "Con _trol_ everything?"

I hummed, dipped lower. That was a really complicated question. When my mouth met my fingers I moved my hand down to his balls and tried swallowing. There were tremors in his legs.

"Eric, not _now_ \-- " he hissed. He was pushing _and_ pulling at my head. Maybe it was a simple question. Control felt good.

His curly blond pubic hair was just tickling my nosetip when Kenny finally settled on a direction and pulled hard enough to lift my head.

"You're a pain in the ass." He said, and kissed me even though I just had his fuckin' dick in my mouth. "Now move back -- _move._ "

I tried to get my hand on him again but he batted it away and forced me back to the headboard -- I thought of the hawk, suddenly, that wicked curved beak -- and I eyed my best friend warily as he settled again on his knees. He yanked at the hairs on my thighs. _Asshole_.

"Asshole." I grit.

"Slow down," Kenny said, tongue in cheek, and the direct contact of his hips butting against mine was momentarily numbing. He wrestled the bottle from my other hand.

My little power rush was fleeing fast. Kenny hooked an arm around my neck and reeled me in as a slick grip settled around the base of my cock -- like he wanted me to watch, or something. I got distracted by the silver stud in his ear and started sort of biting around the lobe. He was probably getting a big earful of every fucking sound I made over his hand working up and down. Finally I had to stop biting and just focus on breathing.

"Hey," he said, and his hand slowed to a heartbreaking stop. "You wan' me?"

Kenny shifted up _clo_ ser, if that was possible, and released me to bring his other hand down between us while the lubey one dropped to probe around my balls. I was about to bite through my fucking lip when he gripped both our dicks at once -- and _fuck_ if that wasn't the craziest thing I'd ever felt. Still wasn't quite enough to block out the feeling of his fuckin' finger pushing into my asshole.

"Uh," I stuttered around for a little bit. "I don't know, man -- "

"Wait a second, huh?" He said, pushing his forehead against mine hard enough to almost knock me the fuck out. "Bet the hospital guys didn't do it like this -- "

 _Shit,_ what the hell we got a _pros_ tate for, anyway? _Holy shit_. Do girls have prostates?

Kenny chuckled against my neck. "No, man. Stop thinking."

"Do I say this shit -- out loud?" I wasn't sure how to move, so I leaned back a bit, then tensed up like a damn two-by-four when he took it as an invitation for a second finger. I was having an unpleasant flashback to the hospital and the CAT scan before he brushed at my prostate again.

"Mm," he sighed, like he was just getting off on watching me squirm -- which, I guess I understood that. His hand moved up over us -- I didn't know if his hand was shaking or my fuckin' dick was. Maybe it was my whole body. "This is good."

" _Ch_ \-- yeah, " My voice -- just pitiful. But that wasn't going to stop me. "Sometimes I stick my fingers up people's assholes in the grocery line -- just for the rush." 

"Mhm," he said, leaned over to press a clumsy kiss to the skin just south of my mouth. "Me too."

I rolled my eyes. Or -- I thought really hard about it, but I was pretty sure there were three effing fingers moving around in my colon and jabbing at my prostate. What the hell _was_ that thing, anyway? Who knew dudes had a goddamn _clit_.

"Stop thinking about it, huh?" Kenny murmured, and he released the grip on our erections. "Hey -- you want me?"

"I want you to stop fuckin' _ask_ in' me."

"That a yes?"

I jerked my head in a nod, stared at his half-lidded eyes as he swayed inward. He was breathing fast; I spent a few moments just watching the movement of his chest.

"You're just gonna hang around 'til I say it, aren't you? _Yes_ , Kenny."

" _Fuck_ yeah," he said, pushed his mouth on mine and licked in immediately. 

His hands withdrew but the riot of sensation in my lower body still stirred with static like the skies following a lightning strike. That didn't happen at the hospital. When he pulled away I heard the rustle and tear of a condom, then the _clack_ of the lube.

"Hey, uh," I said. _Fuck, how do I say this?_ "Don't, uh -- "

"What's up?"

"Can you -- don't use a lot of that shit, okay? They used a ton of it at the hospital -- probably to avoid a fucking law suit -- and it just felt like shitting in reverse."

He huffed a laugh, and his eyes turned fully on me, twice as sharp in the gray dawn. "It'll probably hurt."

"I know. I don't care. I'd rather, like, feel what's going on." I pinched the bridge of my nose with the hand not covered in my mom's fuckin' lube. That was the closest I'd ever come to saying I wanted a dick up my ass.

And he knew it, too, the jack-ass. He knelt back between my legs, still chuckling, and stroked one hand up my cock while the other directed his own. "Scoot down a bit, huh."

I slid down until his shadow blanketed my eyes. Suddenly a chorus of howling ' _fuck you_ 's came over the speakers -- I forgot I had Yelawolf on this playlist.

"Yo, this is still my ringtone for you, man," he said, eyes smiling. "Whoa, this is so perfect. I'll never be able to listen to it the same way again, though."

"The big bad wolf -- of course," I thought, watching his lips pull over his teeth as he stuck his hands on my hips and started to _push_.

"Oh, shit," he huffed. "Motherfucker."

Kenny was a foul-mouthed fucker. He really was. Even with the tables turned he was biting off swears into my ear constantly. Maybe I'm the same way, who knows.

"Quit pulling at my -- " _Motherfucker_. "My fuckin' _leg_ hair."

He moaned my name. So much for the sun rising and _me_ moaning -- 

"Just you fucking wait," he growled.

It did sort of hurt, but I'd rather the burn than the reminder of the probes. Really. I was still counting up my fuckin' vision spots, though, when I felt Kenny come to rest a few surprise inches further than any hospital tech -- consolation prize, I guess. I'd have to give him the bad news, in the event that he _couldn't _compare to at least the terrestrial probe. He mewled a small sigh as he settled, shifting his weight slightly. One hand returned to stroke lazily at my straining cock, and I felt his eyes flick over me as I struggled to adjust. _He could kill me,_ I found myself thinking. _Kyle is such a moron. He's wrapped around my throat and he could fucking kill me if he wanted.___

____

____

His eyes narrowed in the dim light like a very pleased cat. "Don't be so dramatic," he said, and the way he was biting at his bottom lip you'd think he was jacking him _self_ off and not me. I wrenched my eyes fully open, then blinked at him. Kenny blinked back.

" _How_ long am I supposed to wait, exactly?" I snapped.

He started moving almost immediately. I coughed around a grunt as his first lunge brought with it another surge of that sharp pleasure -- I remembered McCormick was a better shot with a rifle than Kobe at the three-point line. Why should this be any different.

He spent about three seconds on the slow and easy thing, then fell into rhythm with a ferocity that left no room for carefully disguised noise -- every snap of his hips was accompanied by a low keening in my ear; and I guess it wouldn't be fair to say he was the only one. I had nothing to grab onto, really, so I just twisted my hands in the sheets. Kenny pulled at my knees and grappled with my hips until he got where he wanted -- I tried to tell myself he was just getting lucky with the prostate thing, but he was a fucking sharp-shooter and I was too far along the road to coming apart to lie to myself.

It was impossible to close my eyes. Like I even kind of _wanted_ too but the sun _was_ rising and he was fucking stunning, you know. Even when his movements got really shaky and rushed -- I don't think it was the return of his hand to my dick that made me come, I think it was the sunlight on his skin.

"Kenny," I said -- okay, it was a moaning sort of thing, but there were words, definitely. "You still -- ?"

He kept moving as the orgasm rippled through me, and when the last whispers were curling over my toes, he sat up and finished in a hard couple of thrusts -- the hand loose over my cock suddenly tightened again, and as he fell forward and shuddered against me, I did too; it was like a weird post-orgasm shadow-orgasm. _Holy shit,_ I kept thinking. _That was --_

Kenny breathed a deep sigh over my chest.

"Can ya -- pull _out_ , maybe?" My muscles kept shivering around him; I was exhausted, suddenly, like I'd just got off hockey practice or something -- like I'd submitted to something violent, and the endorphins were filling my head with smoke. 

Kenny leaned forward as far as he could without pulling the fuck out. He rested his sweaty forehead on my sternum and walked his hands up and down my sides. I barely felt it. "One day -- I'm gonna come inside you."

 _Ugh_. Typical McCormick. "You're crocked."

He finally got the hell _out_ and rolled off me. "Don't move."

 _As if._ But after a moment I reopened my eyes and sat up. The bathroom light was on across the hall. I scrubbed my hands through my hair and felt the sweat drying on my skin. Sweat was an amazing thing; it's only ever a big pain in the ass throughout childhood, but if you ever get the chance to cop a big sweat without anybody around to care, you'll realize, instead of just making you feel like a fat bog in front of your classmates, sweat _really_ cools you down. And then you think -- damn, what an amazing mechanism sweating is, and at least we didn't end up moderating our body temperatures by _pant_ ing all the time with our tongues lolling out of our mouths, like dogs. Sweating, the true distinction between man and hound. Wait... did _were_ wolves sweat, or pant?

"Oh, man," McCormick chuckled, reentering the room. "You're _fun_ ny."

"I'm sticky."

He snorted, bounced onto the bed. "I gotcha, homie."

"Yo," I said, watching him. I got lost on a half-way thought to something abstract and ended up taking a ride back to easy territory. "That was _sick_ , huh?"

 _Jesus H. Christ._ I pinched the bridge of my nose.

Kenny laughed. Laughed like a damn hy _ena_ , the way he does. I thought _I_ was baked.

"Yeah, man," he said, pitching the tissues into the bin. "Careful; I could be horny again in, like, a minute."

"That'd be necrophilia, dude. I'm passing out in, like, a minute."

"Can you grab my sweats, actually?" I said. "I don't like sleeping without pants."

"Huh?" He snorted, nevertheless getting up to move around the room. Terrific lats. Glutes. "Why not?"

"Because I don't like my _set-up_ flopping around everywhere while I sleep, alright?"

"Alright, alright." He tossed my gray Champions over. I liked those ones -- they had pockets.

"I didn't say _you_ had to," I said, watching him roll down the band on another pair from the floor, then shrug and start scratching at his pubes. Blond fuckin' pubes all over my stuff, probably.

"I've been sharing a room with my little sister for so long, dude -- I don't like it flopping around either."

"Then what're you harassing _me_ for?" I muttered, falling to my back to kick on the pants. I pushed my hands into the pockets to straighten them out.

"Prob'ly 'cause you're giving me this un-decorated honesty right now; it's a riot."

He got back on the bed and crawled half over me to settle in like a liquid. Just about dislocated a finger wiggling my hand out from where his knee trapped it in my pocket. 

"Is that a joint?"

"Kinda," I said, eyeing the paper for damage -- it was mostly just bent. "Found it in my pocket."

"And I bet you fuckin' forgot it in there, huh?" He laughed, a huffing breath over my damn nipple. 

"Wake and bake, dude. You'll be thanking me later when we get to lay around and smoke this."

I reached over to try and set the sad joint on the nightstand -- but it was too far; I wasn't going to make it without elastic arms. I strained, but there was this human anchor on my chest, tangled up in my legs, and just when I was thinking I can't _do_ this, nothing is _possible_ like this -- he closed his lips around my damn _nip_ ple.

 _That's it. I'm going to kick this little shit out of my house._

Finally I took aim and tossed the joint at the nightstand; it landed inside the ring of my watch, filter down and head up, without losing a single grain of green; it was probably one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I sighed -- I actually _sighed_ over the effin' thing.

"Goddammit, Kenny." I thought. "I hate the shit I go through because of you; I hated every fucking minute of that soul hunting bullshit, I really did. But -- if it weren't for you, I guess, I'd never know that I was even _ca_ pable of any of that -- or of this. Maybe that's just part of the gay soulmate thing. I love you, man, and you can kill me whenever you want."

"Whoa," Kenny murmured, and I felt all 65 inches of savage pube-scratching beauty slide up me until he could press his face to my neck. "This is the most glowy afterglow I've ever had."

He smelled like the sun. I pushed my hands up and over those things again -- _lats_. Yeah-huh.

"Mm, this isn't gonna work," Kenny said, and I felt the vibrations all down his back. "I'm gonna have a hard-on in like, an hour -- and you're gonna be sleeping."

"Can I hit it in the morning?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lied. there's going to be another chapter.
> 
> {im thinking about a parole officer cartman, punk delinquent kenny AU. it's sounding very good to me right now}


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy ghost, he's back! sorry about that. 
> 
> bonus art. and one more chapter -- already in the works. 
> 
> i'm really stoked on you guys. like, everyone who commented and liked and stuff.

### The Star

Late February held downtown South Park in a muffled blanket of fresh frost. The deep winter had blinked its eyes and begun the slow trudge forward into mud season (or as the locals called it, spring) -- and everything seemed caught up in the breath before the thaw, even the streets themselves, which aged like living things beneath the elements. But countless layers of snow, old and young, could never disguise the old scars and knobbly knees of urban development: abandoned construction sites, roadside trash heaps, and broken windows dressed in blue tarp all stood out like sores against the white-gray backdrop. 

A few snow plows and intercity buses limped and growled over the wet asphalt, spitting occasional gusts of exhaust like fraying black leggings into the air. Some of the smokey threads caught on the boot-heels of passersby -- a handful of people, dark hunched things with bags for hands moving on paths like rails back to their jobs, their homes, their hells. A thought occurred to Kyle, something from Huxley, something about individuals being like “isolated universes” -- all communication between them either incomplete or nonexistent. 

“Alright, what’s up with you?”

His companion barely looked up from his mug, but for a moment Kyle caught a derisive glare in the slight droop of one swollen eyelid. 

“What?” came the answering grunt, from the mass of foreboding dark energy that commonly took the shape of Eric Cartman.

Kyle flicked a crumb onto the floor and propped his elbow up on the sticky table. He sighed -- not a frustrated sigh, but pleased, almost -- because he’d done some of his favorite things today: woke up early, aced his Mensa practice tests, dodged Sheila’s probing questions, beat the shit out of Cartman… and now Kyle had the distinct privilege of witnessing an intellectual sociopath struggling with emotional infancy. It was like watching a naked mole-rat trying to sprout wings.

A line like a long curved hook materialized between Eric’s nostril and cheek -- he was really struggling, today.

“You’re maudlin, dude,” Kyle accused lightly, brushing again at the sticky table. “You’ve been maudlin since the warm up.”

A record of their eye contact would show a history of near-misses; one of them was always either deliberately swerving out of the way or slamming on the brakes and dropping gazes at the last minute. But every once in awhile they made glancing contact and Kyle would catch the glimmer of brown beneath shadows of shattered lashes, like blood on the pavement after a car crash.

“If you’re talking about Moustaphe’s bullshit warm up to _day_ \-- with the lunging and the medicine balls and shit -- you’d be right.” Cartman snapped. He lifted his coffee cup, and abruptly put it back down. “And if you’re talking about the hundred and one hip-hop albums of the same name… well, you’d be right about that, too.”

“So it looks like a good day for Kyle Broflovski,” he snarled as an afterthought, not entirely inaccurately. It was always a good day when Kyle was right.

“ _Maudlin_ , what the hell is that, anyway? Maudlin.” Cartman continued. Cartman would always continue, given the opportunity. “Sounds like a style of fucking drapery. Or some self-titled novel with a hussy female protagonist.”

“You’re the genius, you tell me.”

Finally Eric looked up, another hook lancing down the other side of his nose. _Killswitch engaged,_ Kyle thought.

“Just because I’m a _genius_ doesn’t mean I’m on _dic_ tionary-dot-com’s fucking mailing list -- the OED isn’t _broad_ cast into my brain every time they dig up a new word for purple. And fuck if I’m signing up for _that_ shitrag.”

“You -- “

“And why should I expand my vocabulary, anyway? It’s _gentrification_ , is what it is -- gentrification of language -- but throwing some flashy new shit over the slums doesn’t change the fact that everyone’s still miserable and poor underneath.”

“Cartman, you’re -- “

“A self-contradiction, I know.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Kyle hummed. “But it’s a good start. Let me change my question, in light of this new… evidence.”

Kyle was an attorney in the high school Mock Trial Club; he was only 16 but he felt like a master of rhetoric; he knew the ways words could hide and deflect; he knew that noise was often empty and silence could be deafening. Kyle wore courtroom logic like a protective outer skin, like Kevlar and a Glock 19 -- his gods were _logos_ and _cosmos_ ; and anything outside of their reach was either not dangerous or not worth thinking about. 

“Why do you feel miserable and poor inside?”

Cartman’s eyes narrowed swiftly. “You did your Mensa tests today, didn’t you.”

Kyle leaned back in his seat and managed a small shameless shrug.

“You _did_ , you piece of shit. I can see it in your fucking forehead, that supercilious crease -- it looks just like your shitbird father’s after he’s been smelling his own farts for a while -- “

“Oh fuck off, fat-ass. You’re de _flecting_ \-- “

“Do me a favor, Kyle, okay? Do me a favor -- “ Cartman cut him off with force of volume and a waving hand, as usual. “Cut the wannabe psychoanalytic shit for today, okay? None of your _deus ex machina_ crap, or I’ll reintroduce your fingernails to your tonsils, okay -- remember that?”

Kyle couldn’t suppress a shudder as he recalled the incident -- which he admitted was one of the few times Cartman had got the better of him. Henceforth, Kyle never stole from his lunch tray on Buffalo Chicken Wednesday. 

“Hey, thanks for paying today.” Kyle decided.

He choked and coughed on the small sip of coffee lingering at the back of his throat when Cartman lurched forward, seized him by the neck of his shirt across the narrow table, and threw him back into the high-backed booth with the quick hurl-and-release action of a staple gun. In the blink of an eye Kyle’s head had cracked soundly against the wood and Cartman returned to staring into his empty mug, glum. 

“ _Psy_ chopath,” Kyle growled, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head, sort of glad he’d missed his haircut last week, even if Sheila was riding him about it.

“I warned you.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything -- “

“You know exactly what you did.”

“I was only acknowledging the fact that you actually honored our agreement for once, with the coffees.”

“That’s only what you were doing on the surface.”

Kyle sighed again, with an edge of exasperation, and dropped his hands to pluck at the newspaper gutted between them. Headlines shouted at him from the overlapping pages: Mayor Baker was funding a new road construction and repair project; the governor planned to crack down on drug-related violence with immigration restrictions; the budget for the town library had been cut, again. Kyle wondered at how a mosaic of bland, loosely related topics could have such a powerful depressing effect, combined. But it was just the nature of small-town journalism to be constantly building something out of nothing -- and the _South Park Shitrag_ was certainly no exception. 

Cartman had pulled out the sports section and bitched about the Broncos’ historic lack of offense, and then the athlete advertising MuscleMilk in the margins: “He’s _black_ ; he’s lactose in _tolerant_ , for Christ’s sake.”

At last, Kyle responded to the already half-forgotten accusation. “I’m not a genius, Cartman -- just a scholar. You’re gonna have to explain a little further than that.”

Across the table Cartman snorted, but knowing him, Kyle guessed he’d been waiting for an opening, itching for the chance to bitch and moan about something. Most of the time Cartman’s rage fired way off target -- like Stan’s toy laserguns -- but if you prodded him enough, eventually he got to the point. 

“ _You_ know what you were doing, you stupid Jew. Deception by redirection; you want to make me _think_ you’re changing the subject, but what you’re actually doing is drawing my attention to a counterpoint.”

“To counter _what_ , exactly? Are you saying that you’re _not_ maudlin, not pissy, distracted, and violent, and therefore _not_ feeling miserable and poor about something? I don’t see how my gratitude over coffee acts as a counterpoint, here.”

“ _No_ , see? That’s just it -- ” Cartman said, chopping a hand through the air between them. “Gratitude is not part of our arrangement; this is supposed to be an exchange -- give and take, _only_. Throwing gratitude into the mix means one of two things: I’ve been kidnapped, killed, and replaced by a doppelganger who would buy coffee for a Jew; or I’ve used a meaningless good deed to overcompensate for a larger, external source of guilt.”

“Or you just -- “ Kyle searched for an alternative. “ -- for _got_ to be a bastard today, good God. What do you have to feel guilty about, anyway, outside of the lexicon of your usual atrocities?”

Cartman didn’t yield. He didn’t even look up from his cup. 

“Why do you always do this? Something bothers you and instead of talking about it, you sit on it and bake it into something dire. I bet it’s not as complicated as you think. Like ion propulsion. Or remember that article in _Science_ last week on Saturn’s rings?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Cartman muttered to his dregs. “This is way more complicated than the Cassini Division.”

“So what’s going on?” Kyle pressed, now fighting a genuine interest. “Come on, man. I’m easier on the eyes than an empty cup -- or so I’ve been told -- so come on. Look at me. Spill it.”

“It was just a stupid fight with McCormick.”

Kyle couldn’t stop the snort that arose, unbidden, at the thought of a lover’s quarrel involving Cartman and Kenny, of all people. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Wha -- _no_ , you fuck!” Cartman snarled but his eyes were unfocused, tracking the corners of the room like a rabid dog with nowhere logical to direct its anger. “I mean, yes, but that’s not it. Our natural _state_ is trouble in paradise -- he’s chaos, I’m disorder; it’s what we _do_. If we haven’t had five civil disputes and two fights before breakfast, somebody’s _died_.”

“You’re worried all you do is fight.”

“No, that’s -- that’s too simple.”

Kyle eyed him for a second, then another. And another.

Cartman sighed noisily. “But that’s part of it, maybe.”

“Right, let me say this in the clearest way possible, because I don’t want you to forget it... Eric, if you were only into arguments, you and _me_ would be fucking.”

His shoulders stiffened and Cartman’s head shot up from his sulking slouch -- he looked Kyle up and down and then a tremor rattled up his spine. “ _Jesus_.”

Kyle unfolded his hands and smoothed them over the politics and media section of the paper. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

“Have you and Stan boned since we last talked?”

Kyle managed a gurgle of pure denial -- an uninvited torrent of rage and embarrassment clawed its way up his neck, no doubt wreaking splotchy red havoc over his face.

“You just seem much more comfortable with your sexuality today. It’s subtle, but it’s there. No homo, of course.”

“We’re talking about _your_ gay problems, asswipe.” Kyle retorted, with a tightly controlled stutter. “And the day I come to _you_ for romantic advice will be the _first_ day I spend _out_ side of my fucking mind.”

Cartman yielded a small mirthless chuckle. “Hard cheese to swallow, isn’t it?”

“Take your time,” he continued quietly. “But not too much. Time doesn’t last forever.”

Kyle scoffed loudly.

“I’m serious.” Cartman lifted his eyes to him. They were brown, surely. He had no idea what Kenny was talking about. “You’re _losing._ You’re losing things, every step. So anything you’re gonna do, do it now. You hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you, alright? But fuck -- I never know what the hell you’re on about, anymore.” Kyle lifted his cup to his lips and averted his gaze in order to break the unsettling eye contact and hopefully find something less dark and dramatic outside the window.

Snow had been collecting on the sides of the road since late October, pushed up in long ribbed arches by plows, freckled with foot- and pawprints. But the long rippled drifts had accumulated so much dirt, piss, trash, and exhaust fumes since the start of winter that they resembled smokey black eruptions from the street itself. For one wild moment, Kyle imagined the trashy drifts growing larger and larger, crawling over South Park like lava until everyone looked the way they felt, like things once pure and now blackened, downtrodden -- and smelling faintly of urine.

Kyle shook his head sharply. _Miserable and poor_ , he thought, eyeing the maudlin beast across from him. 

“What was it about this time?” He asked, half-expecting a fight over a bad tour on Call of Duty, or another spat about Kenny ‘flaunting’ his gluten privilege by bringing home Taco Bell all the time. 

“Something stupid,” Cartman hedged, eyes roving again. “About him dying when we were kids, or some shit.”

“What?” Kyle felt the ‘supercilious crease’ on his forehead give way to something more like a ‘disbelieving crevasse’. “Kenny _died_ when we were kids?”

“Yeah, don’t you -- don’t _any_ of you fucking remember, you fucking simpletons?” Cartman spat contemptuously at the window. “He only got hit in the crosswalk in front of the bus stop about ten-hunnit times, right in front of your goddamn faces.”

Honestly, Kyle didn’t know _what_ to believe, considering his past few conversations with Kenny, and his friend’s bizarre recount of events from the past year. The kidnapping alone -- or the ‘Krampus Incident,’ as Kenny referred to it -- was enough for a fairly eventful fall semester, but the cocaine coma and spiritual interloping were up and over the line, for Kyle. He tended to dismiss evidence from outside of his experience of the physical world as hearsay, and therefore ineligible in court.

“We always thought they were just… “

“Dreams? Episodes?” Eric scoffed. “But I remember them. The ones I saw, anyway. When you get shot in a dream, you wake up before the pain. This was different.”

“Wait, but -- how long have you _known_?” Kyle said, attempting to process the timeline in his head. “How long have you known, and only this past year done something about it?”

Cartman shoved his fingers in his eyes and rubbed vigorously. The swollen one was sort of bloodshot already and the rubbing was just an unnecessary aggravation of the injury. Kyle tracked the fresh bruise up to his temple where some of last year’s scarring remained like a mottled pink lakes-region settled against his pale winter skin. 

“It wasn’t my _fault_ until last year,” Cartman muttered.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“Well what was I supposed to _do_?” He demanded in a sudden return to full volume. “Hold his fuckin’ hand? Call up Mr. fucking _Mackey_? Nobody would believe me if I said anything -- “

“So you _make_ them believe!” Kyle said. “Like you always do when you really give a shit about something. Dude -- if it’s true, and you were the only one who knew about it -- then you left him alone all those years, when he could’ve had somebody.”

“What the _fuck_ , man? Who am I, Saint fuckin’ Augustine? I was a kid, too -- I thought if you guys didn’t know about Mysterion’s power it would hurt his credibility. It was that simple -- “

“That’s the worst justification I’ve ever heard,” Kyle scoffed back. “That’s fucking heartless for an eight-year-old to think, and it doesn’t even make sense -- how are Kenny’s… how are his daytime hallucinations a -- a fucking special ability?”

“They _weren’t_ hallucinations, retard. Are you even listening to me?” Cartman’s rabid eyes danced from side to side, as if searching for another weapon. When they returned to Kyle, he was starting to change his mind about their color. 

“ _He -- couldn’t -- die_ ,” Cartman counted out slowly. “He shot himself in the head, right in front of us -- I remember the bang, I remember the blood. I remember you _fags_ acting like it never happened the next day. It was crazy, sure, but… how was I supposed to know we weren’t all in on it?”

As usual when it came to his conversations with Eric Cartman, logic failed. Kyle had thought perhaps Kenny suffered from a sort of metaphysical psychosis -- not anything as wild as soul fracture or _immortality_ , for God’s sake -- and it was possible that Eric suspected or knew about his condition for some time, but Kyle didn’t understand how fat-ass could be _sharing_ the memories of these experiences with Kenny. How could the mind-space of one island universe communicate with another? It broke all the rules.

Kyle believed that every individual’s realm of experience was mutually exclusive -- no matter how empathetic the person, it was a simple fact of reality that one’s consciousness remained immutably separate from everyone else's. To accept the alternative explanation -- the idea of collective consciousness, as it were -- Kyle would first have to break down the two materials at the core of his belief system: _cosmos_ , the ordered totality of all things -- and _logos_ , the reason behind its intelligible design. What Eric was talking about was something entirely different: it was _magic_ , the spear that chaos wields. 

“Wow,” Kyle breathed, before it could all really could catch up to him. “This soulmate stuff is actually starting to make sense.”

In an instant Cartman flushed red from his ears to his knuckles; a deep, unapologetic shade of humiliation. It was a good day for Kyle Broflovski. 

“He… “ Cartman said through gritted teeth. “ _Told_ you?”

Kyle held up his hands imploringly. “Dude, don’t get pissed -- his theory actually has some merit, if you consider -- “

“Some _merit_?” He spat. “Yeah, maybe in effing _Imagination Land_ , where we all find true love in the next pond over, and good and evil dress in their respective colors to go to work. Honestly, Kyle, I knew you liked to take the piss on some of this mystical _God_ mumbo-jumbo, but I never thought you closed your eyes and opened your mouth for it like the rest of the sheeple.”

“If you eliminate all logical options, then what remains, no matter how _il_ logical -- “

“Must be the truth, or your own fucking ignorance.” Cartman finished for him. “I guess we’re all parochial narcissists, then.”

“Look at it this way,” Kyle started carefully. “If what you're telling me is true, about the Winter Solstice and all, and Kenny really has been experiencing the deaths of all the _other_ Kenny McCormicks out there in the Multiverse -- if that’s true, then wouldn't you agree that, at least in the past month, something has changed his condition? Cured him?”

Cartman flapped a hand dismissively. “I guess so, if you want to chop out all the important bits, sure.”

“So then, let’s assume that the cure was, however unlikely, _your_ actions. Whether it’s something you did consciously or unconsciously, in the physical world or the mystical mumbo-jumbo Nether world -- “

“Fuck you -- “

“Then, we have to ask ourselves: why? Why did you succeed? What set this timeline -- _our_ timeline -- apart from all the others? Maybe this is the only universe where your mom leaves, and Kitty dies, maybe it's the only one where you find whatsisname -- _Worm_ \-- and meet Mawal. But maybe it’s also the only universe where you and Kenny are -- “

“But I killed him,” Cartman said, abruptly. “I killed him in the first place.”

“...What?”

“I know where you’re going with this -- if this is the only reality Kenny survives in, then it must be the intervention of some fucking sparkly soul-bond that made me save his ass, but you’re looking at it all wrong. Shit only started to go south be _cause_ of me -- he only broke _because of me_.”

“How do you figure that.”

Cartman sighed as if Kyle was missing something obvious. “If Rainer hadn’t dropped McCormick off the bridge a few years back, then there would be no quantum imbalance, get it? His… _condition_ never would’ve existed. But I took him to a fucking party, and then he got murdered, and his soul exploded. That’s _why_ his childhood sucked.”

Kyle’s brow furrowed. “How does what happened over the Brandywine have anything to do with dying in his childhood… ?”

“Time isn’t _linear_ , fool -- snap out of it. You’re doing that fourth-dimensional creature thing and thinking of time as a _duration_ \-- but it’s a perpetual present. The murder was the rock, and space-time was the pond. The ripples go in all directions.”

“So the deaths of the parallel Kennys were… “ Kyle paused, his eyes tracing the lines in the newspaper. “Echoes? Recompense for a _future_ imbalance?”

“Now you’re catching on,” Eric drawled coldly. “So in every timeline but this one, Kenny is dead. You know what that means? If you’re theory is right, and we’re gay soulmates, you know what that means?”

Kyle was too busy going over the information in his head to respond.

“It means I am responsible for killing him in every other reality -- ex _cept_ the one where we’re together.” 

He lifted his eyes to the in-between space and glared across the table at Kyle. “If I couldn’t have him, here and now, then _no_ one could.”

“You’re a monster.”

Cartman straightened up and sat back with an air of cruel satisfaction -- disdain carving lines like hooks into his face.

“That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?” Kyle continued. “You’re so afraid you might’ve done something kind of _decent_ \-- for _once_ in your life -- that you’ll only accept the truth if it’s mangled into a self-aggrandizing image of Eric Cartman. You’d really like to believe this, wouldn’t you? You would sooner commit to this cross-temporal _execution_ theory than admit your own humanity. You _like_ him, dude -- isn’t it possible you just _like_ him? Why does there have to be a quantum plot to get rid of the competition? Besides, the bridge was an accident.”

“Then why do I feel like it was my fault?”

“Sometimes guilt is a byproduct of regret,” Kyle explained. “You’ve never felt either of those things before so it’s probably hard to parse them out. _Regret_ stems from an inability to accept the reality from a sense of loss or dissatisfaction. _Guilt_ is a feeling of remorse for a personal crime or wrongdoing. You might _regret_ the circumstances leading up to Kenny’s fight with Rainer, and that’s a good thing, but you shouldn’t feel guilty of a homicide that happened at someone else’s hands.”

“So it’s Rainer’s fault,” Cartman grit. “That German scag -- I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Uh, well -- “ Kyle hastened to put a lid on his friend’s twisted machinations. “That doesn’t absolve you completely, remember? I mean, neither you or Rainer intended to kill anybody, but you still carry some of the blame, here. And murder isn’t atonement for murder.”

“I don’t want to a _tone_ , I want to a _venge_!”

“But Kenny’s _fine_!” Kyle insisted. “He’s okay -- nobody’s dead. Look, you’re -- you’re a highly affective individual, Eric. That means your emotions carry a lot of energy, and you tend to force it onto the people around you. If it was positive affect, that would be okay, but with you -- it’s mostly negative.”

Cartman’s eyes fell back to Kyle’s. “Are you saying -- McCormick and I fight because of my negative affect?”

Kyle shrugged. 

“How do I stop it?”

“You can’t -- I mean, you’re always going to be high-affect -- but maybe instead of fueling your negativity by feeling upset or guilty, you should try shifting that energy to something positive.”

At Cartman’s blank look, Kyle suddenly realized he was trying to teach him the basics of emotional geometry when he barely had a handle on the arithmetic. 

“Okay, I have a story to tell you.” Kyle said.

“I’m not in the mood for parables.”

“It’s not technically a parable.”

“If it starts with ‘a long, long, time ago’ and ends with some black-box proof of love, then it’s a damn parable.”

“It’s not a black-box proof of -- “ Kyle started, stopped, took a deep breath. “That’s not the point. Just, shut up and listen, and I’ll buy your refill.”

Eric kicked his feet under the table and crossed his arms.

“A long, long time ago -- “

He snorted, tossed his head, but said nothing.

“When the Earth was still young,” Kyle continued. “Humans looked very different from the ones today. God gripped the primal clay in both hands and made people each with eight limbs -- four legs and four arms -- two faces, and one of three sexes: male-male, male-female, or female-female.”

Kyle paused to separate a single sheaf of paper from the _South Park Shitrag_. He folded it in half, trying to ignore the glare trained on him across the table. 

“And so, moving around like eight-spoked cartwheels, these Vesuvian people worshipped God, and they prospered. It wasn’t long, though, before God began to fear the strength and power of the proto-humans. So he devised a way to double his followers, and halve their capabilities.”

Kyle carefully tore the paper in half along the crease. The sound of its struggle was loud and out of place in the quiet cafe, and seemed to take an infuriatingly long time to finish rending the still air. Cartman’s eyebrows were either tuned into Stravinsky or conducting their very own small symphony in the silent language of rage suppression. 

“God sliced them in two," Kyle said. "But instead of devoting their lives to worship, the new humans wasted away searching for their other halves.” 

“There you go confusing fact and fantasy, again. This is a really new low for you, Kyle.”

“Those things aren’t always bipolar extremes. You of all people should understand that -- _you’re_ the one who insisted Imagination Land was real!”

“Yeah, to win a bet!” He barked.

“How are you denying this right now,” Kyle growled, exasperated. “How is this soulmate shit any less ridiculous than your damned shamanic escapades with the cat lady next door?”

“It makes sense!” Cartman said. “It just makes more sense! Little shit gets his ass ghosted on the streets, soul defragments all over the place -- and one piece gets lodged in me, it was an _accident._ That’s the only reason I remember him dying all the time -- we were all there so we all saw it, but I didn’t _know_ what I was seeing until his punk soul got busy with mine last year.”

“Wait a second, are you _blaming_ him now?”

“Dumbass never shoulda picked a fight with Fichte!”

“You son of a bitch, he did it for _you_!”

Suddenly a shadow fell over their table and Kyle looked up at the smirking addition of the pierced fellow from the cash register. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said smoothly. “We’ve got some noise complaints, from the other patrons.”

Kyle glanced around. The only other occupied table was host to a murder of old crow people playing cribbage and picking at crumbs. He made eye contact with a hawkish man in suspenders and remembered the thugs at Shady Acres Retirement Community. Kyle cleared his throat. 

“Tell ‘em to piss off!” Cartman said instantly.

Kyle tried to shush him, but the cashier was nodding. 

“They’re a pain in my ass, actually -- always asking for margarine,” he said, leaning over their table with a steaming glass pot like a tattooed parody of a 60s diner waitress. “So I actually came over here to refill your coffees and tell you to keep it up.”

Steam spilled over the rim of Kyle’s cup as fresh coffee swelled inside from the bottom up. “On the house,” he added. 

Kyle peered through the wispy bundles of steam to where Cartman watched the same process in his own mug. For just a moment, the two opposite sides of the table were at peace with the same small kindness. 

When he turned to utter his thanks, the pierced man was gone, back behind the counter. He hadn’t even been able to ask his name.

“You know, you wouldn’t be so pathetic and miserable if you didn’t choose to believe it.”

Cartman’s eyes flicked up to him, back under their usual guise of sour boredom. “Atheists don’t have the luxury of _choosing_ what to believe.”

“You’re not an atheist, Cartman. You never were, up until it suited you. Besides, atheism precludes the concept of the immortal soul.”

“So do I.” he snapped. “It’s -- sentimental garbage.”

“Clyde Frog is sentimental garbage.”

“Don’t bring Clyde Frog into this!”

“I’m sorry, I thought we were playing Lie Detector. How the _fuck_ do you explain ‘soul loss’ without the existence of souls? What have we been _talking_ about all this time, if not mythical mumbo-jumbo souls?”

“I didn’t say they didn’t exist,” Cartman began. “I just don’t agree with the concept of the im _mortal_ soul -- the thing philosophical nut-jobs like Plato think sleeps in a spiritual cupboard upstairs while the body suffers on Earth, which is why squares have four sides -- “

“I think you’re mixing Plato with Descartes.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean,” Eric waved off the complaint. “The nonmaterial _soul_ , you know? The thing that goes to Hell to get punished -- and reincarnated if you’re a good Jew. The thing that _transcends_ the self.”

He said ‘transcends the self’ like a man advertising a bag full of leprechaun gold. 

“I’m curious, fat-ass -- what _do_ you believe in, then? All you seem to do is shit on everyone else’s ideas.”

“Fine,” Cartman said with a solemn sigh. “It’s like this; I believe in the soul, I guess. But it’s the same way I believe in hands and _feet_ \-- the same way I believe in _con_ sciousness. We know it’s there but we lack the intellectual tools to explain it to ourselves. Maybe we’re too primal to understand it. Or not primal enough. 

“But this immortal soul bullshit, it’s the _separateness_ I don’t like. Like, if we were all split up like Plato says, between body and spirit, then the soul would transcend the physical world. You know what that means? _Think_ , Kyle.”

“It means… “ Kyle’s logic caught up with him suddenly. “If the soul transcends physical reality, then in every universe, even ones with different laws of physics, the body is different but the soul remains the same. That means -- “

“If McCormick and I actually _were_ soulmates, then we were soulmates in _every single universe_ , every single string of probability.

“If that’s true,” He continued. “Then I’m a lousy soulmate.”

“Holy shit,” Kyle had to look away and try very hard not to think about it, but before he could banish the thought, he heard a small, cold whisper in his head -- it wouldn’t surprise him, really, if Eric Cartman’s soulmate only pulled through the ordeal in _one_ single reality. “Okay, don’t think about that, that’s actually really depressing.”

“You suck at pep talks. At least psychoanalytic Kyle makes a more convincing argument.”

“Okay, wait -- so what? Let’s just forget about the immortal soul thing, since neither of us really buy into that. Kenny’s _mortal_ soul shatters and chooses you, then. His theory still holds; you could’ve been destined in just this timeline, just this one reality, to save him.”

“Jesus, I didn’t expect you to be such a whore for happy endings, Kyle. You’re ignoring the other side of this, the side where it was an _accident_ and now McCormick thinks he’s fuckin’ _destined_ for an ass like me.”

“You feel like you don’t deserve it,” Kyle realized.

“ _Fuck_ what I deserve!” Cartman nearly fucking shouted. “It’s what -- what he deserves, dammit. Nobody should feel stuck with me. Especially not somebody already fucked over by fate for so long.”

“Everybody’s abandoned you, haven’t they?” Kyle interrupted. “Your dad, your mom, your friends -- even your cat. You look around for an image of what love looks like but all you can find are empty spaces, is that it? Get over it, man, relationships are built up by two people deciding to put effort into it.”

“I thought you said they were built up by _fate_.” He spat.

Kyle hissed his exasperation and snatched up one of the torn strips of newspaper. He pulled the strip into a loop, flipped one of the ends over and held them together in a sort of twisted loop. “Do you know what this is?”

Cartman flipped a hand. “Half-wit origami?”

“It’s called a Mobius strip -- a simple object of some interest in the math community. It _looks_ like it has two sides, but actually, this is a one-sided figure. If you trace your finger along the boundary, you’ll feel the entire surface area of the strip without ever lifting your finger -- “

“What does this have to do with me and Kenny?”

“Perception is the key to transformation, Cartman.”

_Killswitch engaged._

Kyle dropped the strip. “Look, you keep arguing that there are two sides to everything -- that one interpretation of last year’s events can’t take precedence over another, or erase the likelihood of an alternative. But sometimes it only _looks_ like there are more sides, more complexities to a situation than there really are. Maybe all the perspectives we’ve talked about are really the same Mobius strip -- there _aren’t_ any opposing sides, just two maps for getting to the same truths. Change your perception, and transform your reality -- “

“You’ve been at William Blake again.”

“Huxley, actually. What he called the ‘Mind at Large’ is actually quite similar to what you’ve been calling the collective consciousness. And soulmates or not, you and Kenny obviously made some kind of connection on that level. You can make it something bitter and dire, or you can choose positive affect and just _let_ something happen.”

“You’re telling me to _choose_ the truth that suits me better? Did you forget to take Sheila’s anal retention supplement today, or are you finally breaking free from orthodoxy?”

“I made my break from orthodoxy a long time ago. Haven’t you been listening to me? Do you think I told you that shit about the octopodal proto-humans because it’s _true_? Because it _makes sense_?”

Cartman blinked.

“At face value, it’s illogical,” Kyle continued. “And it doesn’t hold up under close scrutiny, philosophical or otherwise. Most parables don’t. The point is a matter of _af_ fect, not _ef_ fect. It’s emotional. Were our ancestors each carved from eight-legged clay crab people? No. Should we consider love as an absolute -- something shared only with one other person your entire life? Of _course_ not, that’s ridiculous. But it can feel that way. It can really feel that way, sometimes -- like you’ve found _wholeness_ for the first time and this is an end-all, be-all moment. Don’t fuck it up by wondering if it’s beyond your control, or if you match up exactly right or whatever. You have a _shot_ at something here, bro. Isn’t it worth the risk?”

They didn’t say anything for a long while, but Kyle didn’t think that was a bad thing, necessarily. He didn’t always get a chance to make Cartman stop and think, so when it actually happened, he did his best to let the moment ride itself out. 

The glare from the window set the bust capillaries in Eric’s swollen eye alight. The pink webbing brought out the corrosive red from the brown. Had he always seen it? Kyle wondered. Or had Kenny’s idea that Cartman could change simply rubbed off on him?

“What did Kenny actually say,” Kyle wondered. “In this argument you had?”

He turned away from the window, expression colder than the desolate landscape. “He said I’m a miserable piece of shit, and I use shower head like a trailer park whore to dodge hard questions.”

Kyle raised his eyebrows, made a note to drill Kenny on the best ways to put down Cartman in the future.

“Whatever _that_ means,” Cartman growled. “I think he still resents me for going with Lotus.”

“Why _did_ you?”

His stare hardened instantly to a glare, but he didn’t turn away. “If you tell anybody, I will fuck you up -- I mean I will really fuck you the fuck up.”

It was Kyle’s turn to wave his hand dismissively. “Who’m I gonna tell? Machine Gun Kelly, over there?” 

The cashier was wiping down the counter, again. 

“Stan’s not interested in your twisted romantic life, either.”

Cartman began gathering up his things with slow, orderly precision. He pulled his headphones around his neck, slid the strap of his bag over his head, tucked his gloves under his arm, and finally tugged his car keys from his pocket. 

“Come on, man, I won’t tell anybody,” Kyle tried, leaning over his elbows to catch his eye. “Why’d you go out with Lotus, huh? It can’t be just because she’s hot.”

“I missed him.”

Kyle took a single deep breath. “You’re a monster.”

Conversations were always part-silent. Even scarce, glancing eye contact was an elaborate dance of micro-gestures. 

They started laughing at the same time.

“Seriously,” Kyle wiped at the tears of startled mirth in his eyes. “I mean you do _weird_ shit when you feel a way, brother. Bizarre shit.”

“Don’t I fucking know it,” Cartman snorted back. “Hey, anyway -- I gotta split.”

“What? It’s Friday, dude -- Stan’s downloading the new Call of Duty _as_ we speak.”

“I have stuff.”

“But you _never_ duck out on Cod.” Kyle insisted. “Unless you’re meeting up with Wolf -- but he’s in New Mexico until next week with his great-aunt. Apparently she works at Whoopi Goldberg’s vacation home out there. They have _four_ -wheelers, too -- and like 800 acres of reserve land. Did you know about that?”

Kyle paused for a breath and narrowed his eyes. “There aren’t any four-wheelers, are there?”

Cartman shook his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

“Kenny’s great-aunt doesn’t work for Whoopi Goldberg, does she?”

Another shake. 

“Well, congratulations -- Ryan Spektor’s told just about everyone in our year that Kenny’s a mixed race love-child set to inherit a fortune. So good luck defusing that clusterfuck. Where are you guys going, for real?”

A sloppy grin broke out over Eric’s face for a moment, but he cleaned it up quickly. “San Juan. He’s gonna teach me tongue-clicks in bear country.”

After he left, Kyle took some time to finish his coffee and enjoy the heavy weight of a quiet afternoon. A thought occurred to him, borrowed from Huxley -- from a book he wrote about a long peyote trip. 

> _But the man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out._

Kyle thought of the Tarot card called Death. And the Mobius strip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some extra art for y'all:   
>   
> "What is it with coffee shops and homosexuals, anyway?"


	30. Chapter 30

### The Devil

Deep in the pines of a familiar hill, the winter breathed sweetly. The chill in the air slid through Kenny’s fingers like soft fur in the sallow afternoon light, bitter but companionable, like the shade creature crunching along the frosty dirt path at his side. 

Today Kenny had been pleased to note a slight paleness to his blackness -- not that black could _pale_ , exactly, but the effect was of something tamed, or contented -- and he wondered if it would ever completely fade. If he even wanted it to. 

Kenny was the first to reach the crest of the next rise. The footpath wound down the mountain like a great gray hair tangled in the bristles of a dark pine horsebrush. When he exhaled, the leaves tittered -- he was the chill in the air, the wind and the shiver, all at once, and if he really wanted to, he could leave the footpath behind and walk the clouds, instead, brushing the pine bristles with his wingtips -- Kenny was in his element.

“It’s like -- “ Cartman paused a few steps short of the crest and followed his gaze back down the mountain. “The intro to a horror movie, up here.”

Kenny admired the negative space around his mantle of horns.

“You know what I’m saying? Like somewhere just naturally spooky, without all the hot shit special effects. Somewhere just kind of lonely, I guess. And it smells like those fucking magnolias my mom used to plant all over the place every half-moon. The witch.”

“So,” Kenny began, straining to keep the laughter out of his voice. “It’s like, you have all the _ingredients_ to be poetic, but it just gets washed out with cynical whinging. Sorta like the way you dump sriracha sauce on everything. Don't get lost in the sauce, dude.”

“Wh -- _screw_ you, McCormick, I don’t _whinge_.” 

He always came back from the gym wanting to argue, on boxing days. _Well_ , Kenny amended, _He just always wants to argue._

This high in the mountains, the soil was still scarred by deep frost, but thanks to the sun’s touch there was very little snow -- unlike South Park, which was caught downwind, in the shadows cast by the mountains, earning it Park County’s degrading nickname: the Bottom. Climbing the mountains was like finally breathing air outside the asshole of the world. When they were kids, they imagined climbing up out of the winter still and entering a crystal maze where nobody aged, nobody slept and nobody woke -- nobody’s curfew was up and nobody’s mom was calling. It was a wrinkle in space. 

“What?” Cartman said, lashing out at a viney rosebush with unnecessary violence, then shading his eyes to look up at Kenny. “What’s wrong with you?”

“B -- Bear!”

Kenny snagged on his shoulder as he dodged past -- “Bear bear bear bear bear!” -- and fell into a full pelt back down the hillside.

He was just slowing to a stop where the path leveled out, breathing hard, when a heavy darkness looped around his neck and arm, pulling him down and back. Kenny flailed and grabbed at the restraint with his free hand, but ultimately found himself hunkered down in his least favorite headlock.

A hot exhale hit the shell of his ear. 

“Try harder, McCormick. You _al_ most got me.” 

Kenny pulled hard on Eric’s forearm but only made it clamp tighter, forcing his chin to his chest and his shoulder blades cinching hard together. He coughed for breath. “Got your ass down the hill, didn’t I?" 

Kenny broke off with a few erratic spurts of laughter, which died out as soon as the hold intensified. He was always grabby on boxing days. _Well,_ Kenny amended, _More than usual, anyway._

“C’mon,” Kenny tried. “You thought it was hilarious when you did it to Stan and Kyle -- remember? The first time we brought them out here.”

At some point between struggling and taking deep breaths through the pain, he noticed the red of Cartman’s sleeve, and the black and white of his Sambas shifting in the dirt. He wasn't the horned thing anymore -- he was just human.

 _Pure love feels like --_ Kenny thought grimly. _It's starting to bruise._

“You ever seen Marsh move that fast?” Cartman demanded. “And Kyle dropping him for a head start -- that was priceless. I always wanted to test that super best friend bullshit. Now we know Kyle's a little cockroach survivalist -- and Stan's about as useful as a bent spoon under pressure.”

The arm that was trapping Kenny's head to his chest and causing that sharp pain in his shoulders slipped away, leaving the other hung sort of loosely around his hip. _Grabby_ , Kenny thought. He was extra grabby. Ever since he got back from the gym that afternoon.

“Kinda the opposite of us,” Kenny considered. "I like seeing them at their limits." 

He batted away the lingering arm and turned quickly around -- but Eric was already a slice of black against the familiar backdrop. Six horns carved ringlets in the pale sky.

“You got that from me,” it said, and began trudging back up the slope. 

Kenny ran after it, careful to kick all the biggest rocks and sink his heels into the rotted logs. In contrast, Cartman’s footsteps made no sound -- he’d said he didn’t even need to breathe, really -- as if he was shut off from the world. Or cloaked from it. 

“You can control it,” Kenny accused, out of the fucking blue. “Your projection, I mean. Why do you keep it like that?”

It was the one thing in the Multiverse that Cartman _didn’t_ seem interested in arguing about.

“I mean it’s cool, homie,” Kenny continued. “Don’t get me wrong, I like it up and down -- but you don’t have to throw on the horns just for me to think you’re hot stuff.”

Cartman gave a slight, irritated toss of his head. As the sun settled into the distant blue comb of mountain range, long shadow fingers began reaching slowly down the cracks in the pines’ serrated bark. Just like before -- the darkness was seeping in.

“It’s like my great-uncle always says, ‘What’s the point of putting gravy on a brisket?’”

He stopped walking and Kenny recognized the sound of his quiet, restrained laughter.

“Goddammit, dude,” he huffed. “You had to bring it with the fucking brisket.”

Kenny slipped in front of his horned friend, grinning. “I guess you can’t work triage in World War II without picking up a few ringers for the rainy days.”

“A few ringers,” the thing repeated, tilting its head up to the sky. “Holy shit.”

He was smiling, maybe, Kenny thought. “This isn’t fair, man. You barely let me keep my hood up in public, yet we come all the way out here to the damn spirit world and you're not even _you_. And now _I’m_ the one expected to play Jimmy fucking _Ban_ ter for the world’s biggest Black _Sab_ bath fan -- just because you have a hard-on for theatrics and can’t let anyone in. But why do I have to suffer for it? How is that fair?”

Kenny wasn’t even halfway through his tirade when the darkness paled, rippled, and drained into a decimal point between Eric’s eyebrows -- and he hadn’t even finished before his hands still dripping black were sliding under his hood and settling just under his ears.

“Christ,” he swore, and Kenny watched closely to memorize the impact of amusement on his face, his real face. “I love your backwoods fuckin’ backtalk -- it's like listening to muddy potholes and whiskey. It’s so good to have you back.”

"Okay, yeah," Kenny decided, as Cartman shuffled up close. "That was -- almost a whole compliment. Still a little heavy on the sriracha, maybe, but what's life without a little hot sauce?"

He laughed again and Kenny must be _kill_ ing it, today. "I can't help it. I put that shit on everything."

Kenny frowned with some difficulty. “Anyway, I'm not the only one _back_ , you know -- _you’re_ the halfwit who put his own ass into a drug-induced coma planning on a one-way trip to Hell. Hey -- did you think about what I said? About that thing we talked about -- are you even listening?”

It didn’t seem like it. Usually the one behind the wheel of their conversations, for once Cartman seemed barely coherent, his eyes fallen half-shut over some curiosity just south of Kenny’s nose. 

“What are you -- “

“Just wondering,” Cartman cut him off in a soft, very serious tone. “Why everything smells -- like the fuckin' mag _nol_ ias, all of a sudden.”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “You really don’t remember?”

### The Fool

“You’re a quick study,” I said, glancing up at my small gray shadow. “I bet I could teach you to pack a good bowl.”

Worm was roughly seven cat years old and already the Dark fucking Interpreter the way he followed me around the house with his massive eyes and quiet judgment. And scratchier than a fucking zit on the ass -- my knuckles looked like I’d tested the garbage disposal the old Supernatural way.

In the shadows between the book on the Mindsight and a dying succulent on my desk, Worm’s pale moon eyes narrowed to thin crescents. He was already smart enough to use the toilet, crafty enough to eat my cereal when I wasn't looking -- which made the cat a goddamn _intellectual_ compared to, say, Clyde Donovan.

“Some fags have little screens for their glass, to keep the big grit from clogging up the works, and your lungs,” I said, shifting my hold on Smog. “But if you’re a fiend like me, you just make a little grid with some stems. Build that shit up like a fire.”

A wordless groan broke the stillness that had settled around the room -- and the light of the winter sun on the east wall brightened some. I imagined if we were a claymation model, the way the light would cast our bodies in hard lines -- maybe we _are_ a claymation model, and none of this was ever real. 

Another grumble disturbed my Jamaican Bowl Meditation. Kenny was modern nonconformist art -- laying with his foot on the headboard and his head in the patch of sunlight on the far corner of the bed. One arm like a straight-stemmed sunflower outstretched to the window, holding open my copy of _Deathstroke the Terminator_ Issue #41 at arms-length -- like a sacred text, or something very smelly.

“Try that again, McCormick. With _words_.”

“This is depressing.”

“He’s a _bad_ guy. It’s not meant to be _up_ lifting.”

“I know, but -- I mean, can’t just _one_ issue have a happy ending? Or, not even -- just, like, a _win_. End on a win, that’s all I’m asking. Guy's already lost his wife and son. Give him a break.”

“You are so baked,” I said, snorted and accidentally sent a bunch of keef from my grinder flying around like the damn Happening -- the happening that makes you want to lay down in front of your lawnmower. 

“And you’re not supposed to be in it for the win,” I added, picking up the old trail of thought like the thread of a sock I'd started knitting three weeks ago. “You’re in it for the epic fights, the blood and violence and all the other good shit in the middle. Deathstroke isn’t a fucking Hallmark special -- he’s _real_ shit, man. Real life doesn’t just tie itself up in a bow in the end; that's just a psychological tactic used by film and television producers to enchant a target audience of middle-aged women, and just bum everyone else out, because that's not _life_.”

“Hmm,” Kenny hummed quietly, and it seemed so long it became white noise in my brain. “What is life, babe?”

I finished off the bowl with a touch of the keef I hadn’t blown all over the fucking place. “Life is the space between the end of a sentence and an exclamation point.”

“What?”

“Think about it.”

“You’re full of shit.”

I shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Why d’you have to smoke again, huh?” I heard him rolling over, but focused on coaxing a flame from the lighter. “No more smoking. You smoked before the gym.”

“And now I’m _back_ from the gym,” I said, failing to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I’m bumping up my exercise endorphins with anandamide. It’s gonna make me _real_ happy.”

I glanced over to the bed as the lighter finally flared. “Then I’m gonna have sex with you. It’s gonna be like fucking an angel.”

I was so wrapped up in the thought of it -- having him beneath me, on his hands and knees maybe, or above me, blocking out the sun -- I didn’t notice the sour taste in my mouth until a big wad of foreign smoke was halfway through my lungs. 

“Whoa -- “ McCormick’s dazed voice cut through the abrupt hack-cough that was shaking my brain around. “What’s wrong, homie? You good?”

I coughed all the way across the hall to the bathroom, and spit into the sink. 

“Hey, you good -- ?” He paused, eyes on the sink. “Is that _blood?_ ”

“No,” I said, spitting some of the remaining pink fluvia into the drain. “I had the color red for lunch.”

He was looking pretty serious at the sink, but his fuckin’ hand was crawling under my shirt to trace this mole I had on my lower back. 

“Did you see the shit Mawal brought over for you?” He asked.

"She was over here?"

He nodded. “It was on your desk.”

I pushed past him on a headway back to my room, and stopped by the window to catalog the junk on my desk. But it was just my normal shit -- the rolling tray with the CareBear on it, the Bob Marley grinder the size of a dollar-coin, the papers and the bag Axel brought over that -- 

_Wait._

It was Friday. Ax never brought shit over on Fridays -- he had his thing at the Denver penitentiary with his dad. I didn’t forget shit like that. 

But right there, on the desk next to my tray was an apple-sized wooden box that I only noticed once I started looking for something out of place. Inside it was a bunch of shriveled plant material that looked _nothing_ at all like bud, more like a long-leaved tea -- and I saw the same white petals were curled up in Smog’s round bowl, singed on one side into a perfect half-moon. 

“Why would ya _smoke_ it?” Kenny asked over my shoulder, incredulous. 

I waved him off. “I think I’ve been sent a jinxed box. She -- she wanted this to be near me, but not seen.”

The box was thinly veined and etched with thin geometric entanglements. The wood was faintly warm to the touch. It smelled so familiar. 

“Little did she know,” Kenny said, chuckling. “That you smoke two joints in the afternoon, and then you smoke two joints again.”

“Shut up! This is important -- I’m trying to think.“

“Okay -- I don’t need to call anybody though, right? You’re good?”

“ _No_ ,” I spat. “No, McCormick, I am not fucking good. I _died_. A _lot_.”

“Oh, so you want to join my club?” He said drily. “We only wallow in self-pity on Wednesdays.”

“Send me the fucking bumper sticker, then, because I feel like _crap_ \-- and I’m getting _jinxes_ through the mail.” I spotted Worm’s full moon eyes between the book and the cactus and snarled: “Why can’t you ever _warn_ me!”

“Hey, c'mon man, you always flip on Worm -- “

I whirled on him. “No, _you_ don't get to defend him; you don’t know anything a _bout_ him -- “

“Sure I do,” Kenny said, leaning his hands palms on the windowsill to look down at the backyard. “He’s like you, man -- he likes destruction. He sees a fire and wants to watch it burn. He might even stoke it a little, just for kicks.” 

Kenny turned his face away from the sunlight and back to the desk, a tiny movement that had the overall effect of seeing the Thinker toss you a wink. I remembered my three-step plan from that morning: fight Kyle, smoke weed, have sex. 

My anger was suddenly an ebbing tide; it lapped at the shoreline of conscious thought but not high enough to slap the docks. I wanted to test my teeth against his bottom lip. 

“They’re magnolias, she said, and -- “ He paused when I moved within breathing distance. 

“Yeah?” I prompted, watching the flicker of his tongue over his lips, then the movement of his eyes averting to the window. I liked the way his eyelashes sat on his skin, suddenly. 

“She said something about cleansing,” he continued. “And feminine energies.”

Well that sounded like something really fuckin’ stupid. That sounded like Light work -- but I wasn’t about that healing and blessing bullshit. I was a dope motherfucker; I practiced in the Shadow. 

I bet McCormick ain’t even blood and bone under all that -- I bet if I took sandpaper to his nose I could rub away the skin, peel back the flesh and find gold. And if I kept gouging underneath the gold, there would be a core of loam -- soil that needed me in the right amounts. But how was I supposed to know what was enough? What was too much? I didn’t want to consume him the way my previous partners had been consumed, I was frankly fucking terrified of it -- but Kenny wasn’t Heidi, or even Lotus. He’d been around me longer than anyone else in my life without losing his _Ken_ ny-ness. Even after being shredded up and put back together again -- how did he _do_ it?

Thought I heard the distant creak and groan of massive churning rings of flame, as if in answer, and I was sure of it -- sure that there wasn’t anything as normal as blood and guts under his skin -- but probably nobody would understand, if I gouged his chest open to find out.

Maybe I was already pretty high, or maybe it had something to do with accidentally huffing magnolia, but I’d backed McCormick up against the window without even realizing. I put my hand on the sill behind him to cushion his spine. It brought us pretty close and fuck if I wasn’t going to take advantage of it. 

“I thought we were supposed to be -- “ He pulled on my hair to free his mouth, so I dipped down to chew along his jawline instead. “Makin’ the drive to San Juan.”

“Later.” 

“Oh-kay, then.” he agreed, amenable, and I pulled away to see him grinning -- high, hot, and bothered in the light of the sun -- and I wished I didn’t love things to _pieces_ the way I did, to the point of agony -- going to Jews for advice, questioning reality, contemplating homicide like a frozen dinner -- but I guess I was just a romantic, that way. Kyle was probably right about that, too: it really was all or nothing. 

I thought I smelled something of the loam against his neck -- 

“Was that a -- a growl or, a purr, or something? Jesus, Eric.”

Kenny turned his head away but his shoulders sort of rolled against the window, which is how I knew he was horny. I dropped my free hand between his legs, though, just to check. 

He cleared his throat with a little mewl. 

“Hey,” I said, dragging my thumb down the length of him through his sweats. “Look at me. Look at me, though.”

He did, kind of -- and I watched his eyes like shotguns bounce around a little before finally both barrels lined up, with me in the crosshairs. 

“I don’t want to fight. Not really.”

“I know that.” He said. “Kind of.”

I thought how we’d fit right into one of those informative brochures about the dangers of half-truths and non-committal relationships. Not that those had anything to do with us, but -- surface-level.

“It’s like soil and water, you know? Like once you find the right ratio, shit will grow. We cultivate.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling with his eyes narrowed like I was a bag of talking nickels. 

I dropped to my knees like I’d planned it, even before I had him backed against my bedroom window like a vision of Babel -- half shadowed hubris, half divine light. I pressed my thumbs into the slight dips inside his track-lean hips and moved my lips against him, a single layer of polyester between his dick and the heat of my mouth. 

I’d only just slid the band on his sweats down and got one hand around him, was in the middle of working a bruise into his skin, just inside the iliac crest, when Kenny’s legs went loose and he sank a few inches down. I left my work a little premature -- i had only achieved a pale wonky heart shape -- and blew cold air on the spot. His chest shuddered through a hitched moan. I got a huge rush out of shaking him down. 

I slid my hand to the base of his cock and slowly brought my mouth down to meet it -- and I probably wasn’t terrific at giving head yet but I was working on when to breathe, inhaling on the downstroke and stuff. 

Kenny came fast, or maybe I lost track of time, I don’t know, because I tended to work at it like a science when I was high -- but he yanked on my hair in time for most of his cum to just coat my hand and some of his exposed midriff. I wished I had tissues nearby but if I started planning out where this shit would go down, my house would look like the set of a fucking Kleenex commercial. 

Kenny had sunk down to resting his elbows on the sill. He grinned lazily. “Well? Was it like blowing an angel?”

I snorted. “One that I punched in the teeth first, maybe.”

"You think the old bag sent you an aphrodisiac?" 

I glanced at the little box on the desk. "Nah -- I think I just really wanted you by the window, just then."

### The Devil, Reversed

“Oh yeah,” he said, breaking away just as Kenny was reaching for him. “I remember.”

“Chick shit,” he added, making his way up the path. “I don’t have any feminine energies. Look at me.”

Kenny thought Cartman probably had a lot of unexpressed feminine energies -- which was why he had trouble pulling away from unbalanced, hyper-masculine images of himself like the Minotaur, and Krampus. 

As they crested the hill again, the familiar shape of a small South Park legend swam into view: a 15-foot high mountain maple stretching like a many-clawed hand into the overcast sky, the age-old rope swing swaying gently from its lower boughs. The upward curve of the dirt path wound further up the mountainside into the distance -- toward the caves where they found Worm. 

Kenny crept toward the hanging tree like a moth to moonlight, put his hand on its trunk and peered over the ledge into the basin below. The water was calm, just slightly aglow in the setting sun. 

“Remember when Craig brought that fucking jar up here on our camping trip in 8th grade?”

Cartman barked a short laugh. “With two _ounces_ of weed inside, yeah -- I remember that. Then Clyde got wasted on Rolling Rocks and drop-kicked it into the basin.“

Kenny smiled at the memory of everyone’s horror-struck faces, that night. “He went in after it, though -- I’ll give him credit.”

“What? No,” Cartman said with a disdainful snort. “Don’t give Tucker anything. He didn’t jump that day -- he didn’t even grow the balls to use the rope swing until 9th grade, remember? He waded in from the shore to fish it out, then took his buster-ass drunk friend home that night.”

“Oh yeah,” Kenny hummed. He felt it when Cartman and the slight fuzz-buzz of his black aura wandered into the shadow of the tree beside him. He angled his eyes down at the familiar drop. 

“You should jump,” he murmured. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“I think you should jump.”

Eric coughed, with an edge of hysteric laughter. “No _way_. Motherfucker, I -- I’m _too fat_. Hit the water from this height would be like hitting concrete; I’m _done_ -zo.”

“Who do you think you are?” Kenny laughed back. “Biggie fuckin’ Smalls? You’re not that big, bro. And you’ve done this before. Loads of times.”

Cartman looked back down at the drop. It would be freezing, probably. Kenny closed the distance between them and settled into a crouch right at the cliff’s edge, just inside his maniacal best friend’s shadow. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Cartman muttered. “I wouldn’t make it out.”

Kenny stuck out a finger and drew an old emblem in the dirt with a practiced hand, the same kind of way you remember how to cough when you’re choking, even when nobody’s around to teach you and you haven’t done it in a long time. _Yellow Wolf._ There was something comforting about remembering the person he used to be.

“Relax,” Kenny said mildly. “Think about it like dying.”

“Easy for _you_ to say.”

He pulled his finger from the dirt but didn’t look up from the familiar lines drawn in the earth. “How long have you known about that, anyway?”

“Hard to say.” Cartman grunted, and his feet shifted in the leaves. Kenny got the feeling he was hiding something. To spare him, or something. “A while. Forever, maybe.”

Kenny shaded his eyes to look up at the sun-mottled branches of the hanging tree. Eric avoided eye contact from the shadows.

“I just... “ Kenny paused, rethought his approach. He didn’t want to argue again, not really. “I mean, why didn’t you ever _say_ anything? I was -- “

“‘Cause nobody ever re _membered_ , dude. I _tried_ , alright? I tried to tell them you died all the time, back when you were in the damn vegetative state and we got you on national television, and again when you got killed in my amusement park -- “

Kenny snorted before he could help it. He remembered that one, albeit painfully.

“But everyone is so fucking dumb, man,” Cartman continued. “Dumb and ignorant. It was just one more of those things adults didn’t understand and the guys thought I was full of shit anyway, so why bother breaking a leg forcing them to give a damn? I gave up.”

It had been lonely, Kenny thought for the first time, growing up under the burden of mortality. He’d been tormented daily with strange, graphic visions of death and dismemberment for longer than he could remember. Almost as long as they’d known each other. And Kenny hadn’t really understood it until that moment on his knees on the barfy rug -- Rainer’s knife pressed to his throat and that effing lava lamp glowing in the corner -- it wasn’t until then Kenny realized that he’d grown accustomed to feeling doomed. He wore it like a hood, like ribs wrapping organs or nails hugging fingertips. And it hadn’t really broke him down until he got his ass handed to him on the bridge.

Kenny didn’t care what the fuck you called it -- soul loss, post-traumatic stress, hydrocephalus or what -- the reality was he hadn’t had a headache or even an inkling of doom since December and there was a chance that whatever wacked-out shit Eric did actually _worked_ and maybe there was some kinda _meaning_ in the madness after all -- but Kenny also knew maybe it was all just self-aggrandizing adolescence at its most imaginative. So what if it was? If not as prophetic as true love, it could at least be worth a good laugh. That was always his philosophy, anyway.

The rope swayed in the wind, heavy and lethargic, like a ball python on a bender. 

“Remember when you cut me down?”

“You gonna bitch about that too?” He snapped. “I didn’t climb out here to listen to reruns of Everybody Hates Cartman -- I’ve fuckin’ been there, and I’m not going back. It’s lousy television.”

Eric pulled his hands from his pockets and tugged off his gloves. 

”You gotta admit, though,” he muttered. “That act was fire. I was a fucking sweet executioner.”

Kenny dropped his chin against his knee and angled a smile at the earth. He tipped over a mossy stone so that its damp underbelly faced the sky. 

“Remember when you went bombing with me that one time, in middle school? We hit the train, and the bridge by the high school.”

"I remember wishing my best friend had _nor_ mal hobbies -- or at least legal ones." 

“Liar -- c'mon, you remember what you called yourself?” Kenny pressed. 

"Do we have to keep doing this? I hate Remember When."

“'Member? Huh? 'Member how you signed the walls, you self-glorifying asshole?”

Eric heaved a sigh, kicked at the ground, then dropped down on his heels beside Kenny. 

“I don’t wanna play this game any more.” 

Cartman held him in a few moments rapture with the kind of slow, deliberate eye contact that made Kenny forget to breathe, like a bitch in a romance. He counted the dark constellation of freckles in his red irises. He’d never seen someone with freckles in their eyes, but maybe Kenny had just never looked at anyone long and close enough to see those black holes like pinpricks in the cornea. 

The moment was over when Cartman looked down and stuck his finger in the dirt. Kenny watched him work through a line of stylized letters, unpracticed but steady, and felt a rush of adoration for his best friend’s flaws and foibles. Like you can only love a broke toy a certain way. 

A title appeared in the dirt next to Wolf. Kenny snorted at it in recognition, then grinned at the memory of those late nights--early mornings hauling bicycles over fences, monitoring police frequencies in Jimbo’s truck, the clatter of paint cans and the smell of acetone. 

“So how long have you been telling the future -- or was this just another biblical whiz-bang to piss off Kyle?”

 _Lazarus_ , Kenny thought, shaking his head. For a boy with no real experience of hardship, at the time, Cartman was the last person Kenny expected to bump knuckles with death.

Cartman looked up, biting on the corners of a toothy smile. “I swear I didn’t know about any of that. Not for sure -- I was just winging it. I’m usually just winging it.”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

“I swear I didn’t know, exactly,” he said, dropping his eyes back to the old graffiti tags, side by side in the dirt. “Funny thing, isn’t it, coming back from it? From the edge. Like -- what’s life, really, until you’ve got something to contrast it with?”

“So that’s why you kidnapped my sister.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play stupid, bro. That was your point, wasn’t it?” Kenny insisted, but he didn’t look up from the ground. “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog. You put Karen in danger, you -- you made me try to put her life on a scale next to mine and weigh them, but life’s not like that, not mathematical like that. You’re worthless until you believe and _act_ otherwise.” 

Cartman reached out slowly and cuffed Kenny over the ear, then wrapped his palm over the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know where the fuck you got that idea, McCormick. Honestly. I kidnapped your sister for the thrill, and if you ask me again I’ll deny it.”

Kenny scoffed, then straight-arm shoved at his friend where he crouched at his side -- Cartman teetered on his heels but ultimately fell to his ass in the dead leaves. 

He leaned over the Horned God until his shadow fluttered over his face. "Rise," Kenny said. "Come on. You got a right to."

But he didn’t rise. Cartman lifted his arm and shaded his eyes with it. The number on the upper arm of his jacket was 13. He liked to provoke people -- even if it meant playing the Devil. 

“Sorry I’m your soulmate.”

“What?”

Kenny shuffled over on his knees and picked some of the leaves from around Cartman’s shoulders.

“What?” He tried again.

Cartman sighed noisily. “Look, I’m trying to get out of this without sounding like a fairy, okay? I know I haven’t been -- _good_ to you. Not in this life, and definitely not in any parallel one, since you die in all those. I just -- I acknowledge your struggle, and the part I played in it. And… “

He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his head, dislodging a few clinging clumps of pine needles and leaving his hair at odd angles.

“And?”

“And I’ve decided to give the soulmate thing a go, if you want.”

Kenny grinned lopsided in the gathering shadows, because that single strange sentence had probably taken _hours_ of chewing and spitting up before Cartman could grasp its meaning, emotionally. And Kenny was proud, he was damned proud of him for that.

He reached out and brushed his fingers over the bruising around his eye. “This from training, today? Was it Kyle?”

Cartman shrugged him off. “No.” He lied.

Kenny settled his chin on his knee and exhaled through his nose. “I’m pretty hooked on you, you know.”

“Huh?” Eric glanced up from twisting his gloves around. “For real?”

“Yeah, man. I mean, do you -- d’you feel like things have been good, the past few weeks?”

He shrugged again.

“I wasn’t just fucking around. I like us. I like our ways, even if they’re not the regular ways of doing things, relationship things.”

““It’s over, I think.” Cartman muttered.

"Was it something I said?”

“Not like that, smart-ass, I just mean -- this crazy shit is kind of _over_ , right? Starting with that laced bud, and Rainer killing you, and then all this soul retrieval shit; I mean it’s safe to say it’s kind of over, the end.”

“Why say that? We’re at the beginning, dude. We can do so much from here. And I thought you said endings weren’t important.”

“That’s not what I meant, though -- they’re still important, just not always _tidy_ , you know? But life is such a confusing mess, all the time. Like one big run-on sentence. We deserve a nice, clean ending for once. How ‘bout right now, huh? This is our spot -- you got the, you know, the mountains and shit. This would make a good ending. Let’s remember this.”

“Okay,” Kenny considered, and licked his dry lips. “But first, you have to jump.”

Cartman looked away, bit down on the corner of his bottom lip. “I would _die_ , motherfucker.”

“No you won’t.”

“Okay, your blind certainty isn’t encouraging -- it’s kind of disturbing, really.”

“It’s perfect, don’t you see? Remember when Kyle did your reading, back in October?”

“Yes, and he pulled the Death card on me, whoop-dee-do. I already died, on the Solstice, remember? With the cocaine coma and shit? Checking that off my list.”

“Yeah, but now I have to kill you. For killing me that time, see? It needs to come full circle, or we can’t end it here.”

Cartman looked out across the cliff edge. “How are you so sure I won’t die.”

“I’m not. But happy shit isn't written into real life; so you just put your faith in it.”

“Sure, and by putting my faith in it you actually mean flinging my sorry ass off a cliff in the middle of winter and just hoping I'll wake up with a hard-on. Great, Kenny. This relationship is shaping up… just… great… “

Kenny pressed his fingertips underneath his friend’s jawline, grazed his lips over the scars, then skated them down the bridge of his nose. “I know you can do it,” he murmured. 

“We could make out all day, too.” Cartman said, tipping his head with obvious intent in his half-lidded eyes. “Just a thought.”

Kenny connected their mouths hungrily, pushed one hand down the back of his friend’s shirt, almost toppled them into the dirt again if Cartman hadn’t caught himself on an outstretched hand, wrapped the other arm around Kenny and brought them both to their feet. Leaning against the hanging tree was like trying to lie down on an escalator, but he hardly paid the discomfort any mind, choosing instead to lead on the hands plucking at his belt and nip at the tongue pressing beyond its territory. He managed to shove his jacket down over his shoulders and soon it landed in the leaves.

“You really want me to do this?”

 _I really want you,_ Kenny thought, leaning into the warmth of his best friend, trying to find his mouth again. 

“I’ll either wake up from this dream, or from an even bigger one.”

Kenny smiled against his lips. “Either way, homie.”

Cartman pulled away and stepped up to the rope -- Kenny was loathe to see him go, even though it was his idea and he thought Cartman _needed_ to do it, somehow, needed to feel a kind of atonement.

“Perception is the key to transformation,” Kenny heard him murmur.

Eric looked up, then down. He stepped over the cliff-edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The End._


End file.
